


Sanguis

by erasergremlin



Series: Red [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Action, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Animal Death, Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Drama, Gen, M/M, Past Abuse, Pre-Trespasser, Reference/Discussion of Abuse, Rivalmance, Tevinter, Venatori, alchohol abuse, master/slave elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-18
Updated: 2016-10-23
Packaged: 2018-04-21 08:54:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 25
Words: 89,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4822895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erasergremlin/pseuds/erasergremlin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Breach is sealed, but that is not where some stories end. Dorian knows his hopes of reform are half-a-dream; at least until he figures out where to start. He remains at Skyhold, biding his time, formulating ideas, becoming bored with the quiet day-to-day, until the Inquisition summons him to commit what he would have thought unthinkable - join the Venatori, or what remains of them, and destroy them from within once and for all. It could be his best chance at a start to weeding out the supremacists, but without aid, it would most likely be his end.</p><p>The man chosen to be tasked as his guard, however... Makes things a little more difficult for everyone involved.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Vipera

The months following the sealing of the Breach were entirely more peaceful than even Dorian expected. The Inquisitor, bemoaning the loss of the new Divine, had become more reclusive than ever, and Skyhold had grown almost unbearably quiet for it. She would see no visitors, instead setting Josephine upon the Inquisitor's seat, and while he adored the Antivan for her sharp wit, watching her wield diplomacy in the same fashion that Bull wielded a hammer - determined, flat, and sometimes a little over the top - had become a little dull.

Loathe as he was to admit it, the Games of Orlais were becoming more predictable with each passing day. The South was becoming the drab, rainy pit that he'd always thought it to be before even setting one foot Southward. Soon, Dorian knew, he'd have to start looking North, even if he wasn't sure he could call it _home_ any longer.

The Venatori idealists had all but crawled back into the cracks they emerged from with the fall of their Elder One, but he knew that he was farther South still than word would really reach. Once he headed back to Tevinter, he'd have to dig a little harder and press for reform more firmly. This meant, of course, patching things up with his father, which wasn't... Entirely out of the question, now, he supposed - as well as vying for the Magisterium. He'd been gone for some time, but still stood as an Enchanter in the Imperium - at least, as long as any Venatori in higher positions of power hadn't done anything to sabotage that.

For now, though, it seemed everyone in Skyhold was looking for ways to waste just a little more time before moving on - Dorian included. So when he received an invitation to help Leliana drain her wine stores, he didn't hesitate to accept. Despite pretty much residing in the library a single floor below her in the tower, Dorian rarely sought the company of the spymaster. She struck him as someone who didn't enjoy being bothered, anyhow. Yet here they sat in the upper chamber, discussing the weather, exchanging absent-minded compliments, and falling into prattle about the vermin she kept as exotic pets at home, while surrounded by the scavengers she kept as pets at large.

It went on just long enough for Dorian to drop his guard, and forget that she probably wanted something.

"How are you finding the fitting in?" Leliana asked suddenly over the rim of her glass, locking eyes with the mage. The mage gave pause, watching her; it was more than obvious that she knew the answer to that already. He chuckled softly, and drank.

"Oh, you know." He shrugged once he had swallowed, lips pulling upward. "I'm still a Tevinter in the South, out of place in the best of situations despite what I've helped to accomplish. Mother Giselle still thinks I'm part of some plot, and I'm sure half of her flock listen to her. The others... Well. I'm not unused to whispers behind hands, or people speaking in hushed tones to each other while looking straight at me."

Leliana examined him, and then smiled. "Good."

"-Beg your pardon?" Dorian tensed in his seat, brows furrowing.

The woman set her glass down and pushed it away, still mostly full. As she ignored him in favor of glancing and shuffling through the parchments over her desk - coded, or Dorian might have at least entertained himself by catching snippets - he scowled, and reached for the wine, filling up his own glass again - making sure to be extra generous, of course. As he drank, he hoped the imported vintage cost her a hefty sum. "I need you to do something," She started finally, folding something with a short whistle, and tying it to the leg of a crow that had hopped onto the desk. When it took off, a wingtip skimmed Dorian's ear.

"For you?" He couldn't sound less interested even if he tried, right at this moment.

"For the Inquisition." She said instead, and the mage looked at her from the corner of his eye. Leliana sat forward, intertwining her fingers as she leaned over her table; she might have looked pensive, but he didn't know her face well enough to truly read it. He sat back in his chair with a small sigh, crossing an ankle over his knee and swirling the wine distractedly around in his glass.

"And just what is the Inquisition asking of me?" He said carefully, bringing the cup's rim to his lips again. There was a pregnant silence while she watched him drink, and he found himself holding his breath, almost afraid to swallow.

"Infiltrate the Venatori." Leliana deadpanned, and Dorian nearly spat out his wine. Her sharp eyes watched him as the mage collected himself, and he patted down the collar of his garments before levelling her with a stare.

"I'm sorry, I must have misheard you. Did you say the _Venatori_?" He waited for a response, and ruffled up when he received nothing more than her continued stare. "You can't be serious! The Venatori _know who I am_! They'll _kill_ me!" His feet were flat against the floor again, and he wasn't quite sure when it had happened, but he was on his feet.

"You are the only one who can," Leliana pulled her linked hands off the table to tuck them under her chin. Her face, her infuriatingly casually calm face, watched him quietly, and Dorian's mouth flapped wordlessly before his brain caught up.

"What - _you can't just ask me to do this._ This isn't - this isn't attending a _tea party_! This is a job for _spies_ , for _assassins - I_ can't..." His hands waved animatedly through the air before he had to throw them down on the table in an effort not to scream in frustration. They _couldn't_ be asking this of him. He was dreaming. "- _No._ No. I won't do it." 

" _This is not a request, Dorian Pavus."_ The woman's voice took on an edge, and despite remaining in her seat, she did not seem to even notice that the mage was towering over her. "You are the only Tevinter in our employ that we can trust to do this. _This must be believable,_ and it remains that the majority of the Inquisition still does not trust you, despite your actions. That can be used to fuel the fire when we tell them that you've betrayed us."

Dorian stood up straight, stunned. Taking a fumbling step backward, his heel bumped into the leg of his chair, and he sat heavily into it, the buckles of his clothing clanking in the sudden quiet. It felt as though the breath had been kicked out of his lungs, and it took him a minute to be able to speak. "...I haven't betrayed you."

"You haven't yet," Leliana corrected, and did not shy away from his eyes when he looked into her own.

"...This... Is something already in motion, isn't it." He breathed, lost. There was silence in the aerie, at least where voices were concerned - the crows fluttered in their cages, beaks and talons scraping against the stone as the free ones moved about. Leliana was not going to give him an answer. Shoulders sagging, Dorian bent forward, placing his elbows on his knees and running his hands over his face, finally digging his thumbs into his eye sockets until he saw stars. "And if I refuse?"

"Then when word gets out, you will probably be killed." The archer spoke simply, and Dorian exhaled into his palms. He thought about it a moment, and let out a bitter, soft laugh. She really just did not understand.

"...The Venatori will kill me anyway."

He heard the soft whisper of parchment sliding against wood, and tried to still his panicked mind. When she spoke, Leliana's voice broke him out of his daze. "Not when they hear that you killed Magister Alexius for giving us information on the Venatori spies amongst us, and fled into the night. They will at least keep you alive long enough to ask you _why_."

Dorian sat up straight, feeling the blood drain from his face. _Gereon_. " _You didn't._ " He breathed, and Leliana was silent for a second too long.

 _'This must be believable,'_ His memory was telling him, in Leliana's voice.

Desperation was gnawing at the pit of his stomach, growing with every breath. " _Leliana_ ," He started, and his plea fell flat. He just stared at her, instead, and she only returned his gaze in silence, lips curving upward at the corners.

The spymaster's smile was sharp and entirely out of place for the situation. "Don't fret, Altus Pavus; you won't be going alone." She pulled a scrap of parchment closer to herself on the table, her eyes flicking toward it before folding it away, tucking it into her palm and moving to stand. "Your escort should be arriving by midday tomorrow; If you'd like to wait in the main hall, Ambassador Montilyet will be receiving him."

Dorian stared at her in bewildered, desperate silence for what felt like a long time. When answers remained unspoken and Leliana went back to her missives, the mage eventually resigned to taking his leave, grabbing the bottle off of the table on the way. Leliana didn't try to stop him.


	2. Lupus

By morning, it was easier to pretend that his conversation with Leliana had gone better. Dorian had received a crow to his own window in Skyhold during the night, and while the words contained in its letter eased a few of his doubts, there were still far too many details left out. Alexius’ true fate, the names of those he was allowed to speak to about it - the missive said _no one_ , and it made Dorian’s throat tighten as he thought of it - and even how, exactly, they were supposed to ‘flee into the night’. Whoever this ‘they’ would be, in any case. It had left _that_ part out, as well.

 Breakfast did not go down easily, and Dorian found himself in the receiving hall long before midday. He paced, fretted, chewed at his thumb, and remained a general distractive nuisance until Josephine banished him to one of the alcoves down the stairs. It only gave him a smaller space to do all of those same things. His eyes were on the door near-constantly, dreading whomever that wretched woman had planned to go with him. Couldn’t he take ... Well, _anyone_ that he’d actually know?

 When the elf walked in, great sword strapped to his back, Dorian knew him instantly. He didn’t need Varric to helpfully make his way to the stranger, heading him off before he could make his way to the Ambassador, crowing in either unbridled excitement or highly calculated volume for all the right ears to hear of his arrival. Did Varric know?

 Varric was certainly not ‘ _no one’_.

 “ _Fenris_. It’s been a while.”

 Dorian’s attention was fixed. Varric caught up to the long, hesitant strides and ushered the elf towards his own usual haunt, but neither of them sat at the table there, instead exchanging quiet words by the fireplace and out of earshot of the Inquisitor’s throne. The dwarf would glance over at Josephine on the odd occasion as they spoke, but more curiously, he found _himself_ the subject of a few lengthy glances and gestures. Fenris’ hands balled into fists and relaxed again on at least four separate occasions.

 Dorian could admit, quietly and to himself, that the elf was handsome.

 Fenris was not quite as described in Varric’s books. His hair was stark white, that much was true, and Dorian could see the scars hiding the lyrium no doubt buried in his dark skin - he had to admit, his scholarly curiosity _was_ piqued at the process that must have been implemented to put it there - but the similarities to the elf in the book ended there. Barely shorter than himself, Fenris was solidly built, the corded muscle of his arms clear as day along his bare biceps. Waifish was not a word he would use to describe this man. White as his hair was, there was no fringe _‘hanging across mossy eyes’,_ but instead an undercut, pulled back into a small knot at the back of his head. His armor was slightly different than Dorian’s imagining as well, more steel-laden and less skin-tight, but he’d also met Hawke in the flesh, and he had to say that Varric may have been reaching _just a tad_ with the skimp and lavish of his comrades. Not that he’d hold it against him. Oversexualizing characters to gain readership wasn’t unheard of.

  _This_ Fenris, though, in his opinion... Would have done just as well written as he was.

 It was then that Dorian realized he was probably, also, glancing their way for far too long a period. Clearing his throat, he moved away from the alcove he’d taken up residence in, over to the Inquisitor’s throne, giving Josephine a hesitant smile when he caught her eye. The tension in his stomach eased when it was returned warmly, and she waved him up to listen with her to some Orlesian farmer’s plight.

 Something about sad crops.

 Fade rift refuse in soil.

 Recompense.

 It wasn't long before Dorian’s attention was slipping again to the stranger in the back corner. He tapped his rings against the metal of his staff distractedly, and only stopped when Josephine stealthily slid a hand off the side of the throne, pinching suddenly at the soft bit behind his knee. He startled, biting back a curse, and stilled his fingers. When Varric had apparently told the elf all he needed to tell, he made his way, with Fenris, to the head of the hall along the sidelines. Josephine sat up a little straighter, and unconsciously, Dorian placed a hand on the back of her chair. With a promise that the matter would be looked into and compensations would be made, the farmer was escorted back out of the hall, and the new pair approaching the dais stopped at the foot of the stair.

 Fenris licked his lips, obviously unused to such a place, the formality of a public introduction uncomfortable, to say the least. To his credit, his voice came out without the shake of nervousness. “I present myself in response to the summons I received from a scout of the Inquisition. I am Fenris, former compatriot of Marian Hawke, Champion of Kirkwall.” His eyes never left Josephine’s, and Dorian was very sure that the elf was pretending she was the only person in the room. “I hope I can be of service.”

 The slow, heavy lilt of the elf's speech had Dorian yearning for home. His accent had long faded to almost nothing from the years spent in the Free Marches, but in the depths of that raw tone, Dorian could catch Tevinter inflections plain as day. A part of him hoped that this was not the same man that Varric had written about in the book. That his hatred was put grossly out of proportion for the entertainment of readers, and he might hear the tongue of his homeland in that voice.

 “It is a pleasure of the Inquisition to welcome you, Fenris.” Josephine smiled graciously with a nod of her head, glancing around the room before continuing. Everyone within was probably on Leliana’s payroll, and Dorian highly doubted that anyone in the room was not meant to be there. Varric stood slightly in front of the elf, overly tense, and Dorian was receiving a _very_ pointed stare. The mage quirked a brow, and winked at him before his focus was drawn back towards the elf. “You will be briefed, of course,” Josephine continued, ignoring the exchange, “And over the course of the next few weeks I’m sure you will meet a great many faces, but we may as well get a head start on introductions. I am Josephine Montilyet, Ambassador of the Inquisition - the Inquisitor would meet with you herself, but she has been... Indisposed, as of late.”

 Fenris nodded, but looked almost relieved at the news that this woman was not the Inquisitor. His shoulders relaxed slightly, and he nodded his understanding. Josephine went on. “I take it you know our dear Varric already,” Her smile was all warmth, practiced to perfection in its simplicity, and she gestured up towards the mage with her right hand, the golden cuff on her sleeve slipping down to bare a delicate wrist. “And this is Dorian, of House Pavus.”

 He inhaled, watching as the stranger's attention was directed towards him, and leaned a little on his staff with a nod of his head that he hoped came off a little easier than his stiff muscles allowed. " _Avanna_ , _amicus_."

 The elf's bearing went from casual bystander to rabid hound in less time than it took for Varric to mutter a curse under his breath. Dorian’s pulse quickened when the lines under the slave’s skin became a light, stepping forward around where Varric was trying to hold him off. He padded his way up the steps at a furious pace - _no boots,_ Dorian’s mind wandered briefly, until he was confronted only hair’s breadth away by a malevolent, unfamiliar face.

 " _Fasta vass, vipera_.” Fenris began in a growl, fury forcing a small shudder from his shoulders. Clearly, this was him reigning himself in. “Speak to me in that tongue one more time and I will rip it out of your very mouth."

  _‘Well,’_ Dorian thought, ‘ _so much for that.’_

 For all of Varric’s discrepancies, this former slave’s rage against Tevinter, it seemed, was very accurately portrayed. Josie moved to stand, and Dorian placed a hand onto her shoulder gently, smiling instead at the daggers in Fenris’ eyes. “Forgive me, then. I must not have been thinking.” His smile turned a little sharp, and he could feel the skin tightening at the corner of his eyes. “In the future, I’ll be sure to remain prudent to such a _delicate_ outlook.” Green eyes widened while nostrils flared, and Dorian could admit that he may have been preening just a little at the successful rise.

 “ _Pathice._ ”

 Josephine gasped, and Dorian spat out a bark of laughter - he wasn’t sure if it was to the insult itself, or the fact that _that_ was one of the few phrases in Tevene that Josephine could recall.

 He’d have to tease her about _that_ later.

 Really, though, “That’s... Not far off the mark, actually.” Dorian mused, just loud enough for both Fenris and Josephine to hear. Josie put a hand to her mouth, and Dorian was fairly sure he heard her scoff behind it. Or cackle. A mix of both, perhaps. Fenris reeled back and bristled, springing off into a string of hissed expletives while his marks lit up all over again.

 “-How about a friendly game of Diamondback?” Ever the smooth operator, Varric broke into the elf’s heated words as though he’d done it a thousand times before. Fenris halted, stared at the dwarf, and went back to glaring at Dorian, albeit more silently this time. There was a dusting of color in the elf’s face from a mixture of embarrassment and anger, and Dorian watched him fidget under his gaze, crossing his arms tightly about himself, shoulders hunched.

 Choosing to smile instead, the mage winked again at the dwarf. “Now _that_ is a plan I can get behind.” Patting Josephine’s shoulder gently before removing his hand, Dorian took a step forward, causing the elf to shuffle backward another step. “If, of course, our guest is feeling charitable.” He watched the elf grit his teeth, and took another step, putting the stranger out of his peripheral as he took two steps down.

 He recognized the hushed, hurried voice behind him as Varric’s, and tuned in to the unfamiliar rough muttering in response, but couldn’t make out any of the words. When Dorian looked over his shoulder, it was to Varric giving Fenris that same exceptionally pointed look that had been directed at him not too many moments before. He raised a brow, and Fenris gave the dwarf a long, hard look before growling out a sigh and rolling his eyes. “...Fine.” His irises were mid-fall when he caught Dorian watching, and the elf shifted his weight from one foot to the other, clearing his throat. Another fidget, and again he was crossing his arms defensively over himself before speaking. “...I... Apologize, Altus.” He glanced down at Varric, and the smaller man tipped his head forward as if urging him to continue. Fenris shook visibly before hissing out a breath, words tumbling out along with it. “It’s been a long while since anyone has spoken to me in Tevene. I may have let my reactions get away from me.”

  _May have?_ Dorian opened his mouth to quip, paused to the sudden _flare_ in Varric’s eyes, and left it alone. “I can imagine,” He said instead, and saw the way Fenris’ gauntleted hand dug into his arm. Apparently satisfied, Varric moved past Fenris toward the table, digging around in his coat for his cards. "Given what I've heard about you from our stout friend here," Dorian received an elbow to his hip as the blonde passed with Varric’s signature, quiet chuckle. He moved to follow him at the same time as Fenris did, and the elf froze just long enough for the mage to move on ahead. "To be honest, I'm insulted that your insult was so unimaginative."

 Varric looked suddenly interested, peeking up at them both. “Hey, yeah, what _did_ Broody say?”

 “It’s not important.” Fenris rushed in before Dorian could answer, staring at him, and the mage laughed softly, shrugging at the dwarf. The sound of padded footfalls heralded the warrior as he wound his way back to Varric’s table, giving Dorian a wide berth the entire way there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Another chapter! The ones after this might be a little slower coming, but I will keep trucking along! Thank you for reading!!!
> 
> Started writing this before the release of the DLC's. Yeah I'm just that slow at writing. No DLC content will be included, and I'm sure this will be a timeline hot mess because of it. Once I play them if it can still fit I may retro-edit, but otherwise this will just remain DLC-free. Forgive me. 
> 
> (Edited in the April 2016 overhaul.) ♥


	3. Diamondback

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Dorian fucks it up, right off the bat.

“Come on - it made _Josephine_ balk. Woman has played the Game for years and you made her downright snort! Broody. Sparkler. _I need to know._ ”

 Varric was insistent.

 So insistent, in fact, that he hadn’t shut up about his new mystery phrase even halfway through their third hand. Dorian had taken the warmest seat closest to the fireplace, even if the logs were burning as little more than coals after the morning fire had been left to die. Neither the day nor the main hall were overly cold, but Dorian simply couldn’t seem to fight off the chill that had settled into his bones. He tried instead to simply shake off the feeling, focusing on his cards, maintaining his betting face, and trying to read the elf.

 The third was by far the most difficult. The warrior gave no inclination that he was here for underhanded reasons, or that they’d be running off into the night together under the pretense of treachery. Benign questions went mostly unanswered, more than half of the elf’s responses consisting of little more than grunts or the occasional furrowing of his eyebrows. He didn’t even seem to want to learn anything about Dorian, feigning indifference over his cards, uninterested in scheming about what the future entailed for either of them.

 With every passing word, Dorian began to doubt.

 Judging by the fact that Fenris had the entirety of the betting pool so far tucked between his elbows, however - well. When someone had a good face for Diamondback, one would probably be quite proficient at keeping straight faces about a great many things. And the fact that he was outplaying _Varric_...

 The elf had to be _good_.

 Which made it _very difficult_ to ascertain his motive. Chewing on the inside of his lip, Dorian mulled it over, folded his hand - a priest and a king, anyways, and he couldn’t be bothered to try to play such a hand up - and decided on the direct approach. “Fenris,” He started, and the elf in question made a small noise, but did not look up from his cards. Fenris flipped a coin into the pool in the middle of the table. He didn’t grace Dorian with even a glance, and the mage could feel frustration boiling at his insides. “Have you ever thought about what’s going on in Tevinter, since you left?”

 Fenris pulled his gaze upward, and Dorian felt two curious sets of eyes watching him. Fenris’ brows scrunched together, and he set his cards on the table. “I will never either know, nor care.” He said, twirling a coin thoughtfully between his fingers when Varric threw two more coins into the pot with a low grumble.

 “When the flames did you get so good at this?” He said, blatantly trying to change the subject. Fenris huffed out a breath, biting at the lure more easily than Varric did.

 “Perhaps someone taught me how to _cheat_.” The elf said, and Varric swore again, kicking at the table leg and hissing out a breath when Fenris raised the stakes. Dorian watched the exchange, and pushed on. _He had to know._

 Rapping his rings carelessly against the table, he shifted in his seat, and leaned forward, catching the warrior’s attention again, just a brief flit of his gaze before it was back on his cards. “You’d never think about going back?”

 “Never.” The elf drawled without glancing up again. A muscle twitched in his cheek.

 “It’s never even crossed your mind?”

 “ _Sparkler-_ ” Varric tried to cut in, _warning,_ but Dorian would not be swayed.

 “But what if I was to say that Tevinter was on the precipice of change, and just needed one last boot to the backside before it all came tumbling down?” Desperation was clawing at him. The wait was killing him, and Fenris’ refusal to even give him a _hint_ had Dorian’s stomach in so many knots he had no idea where to start untying.

 Fenris tapped the spiked tip of his gauntlet irritably against the tabletop. “Mage,” He said, and locked eyes with him. Dorian was caught, that uneasy feeling curling grimly all over again, and Fenris just kept _staring_ at him. “I have no intentions of going back to that wretched place, unless it is to burn the entire country down to ash and bone. Tread lightly, if you wish to continue this topic, or I may just _start with you_.”

 Dorian couldn’t find any hidden meaning in those damnable eyes. He stared at the other man, probably for longer than was absolutely appropriate, and swallowed as he read the defensive sort of confusion there.

 “...Right,” He mumbled, and dropped his gaze.

  _Tell no one,_ the scribbled parchment came to mind. He looked down at his cards, and bit at his lip distractedly. Was... Fenris _not_ the escort that Leliana was talking about? No one else even half as interesting had come through that door that afternoon. Fenris looked genuinely confused at the subject that Dorian kept on pushing, however, and as he was the only viable candidate in the mage’s opinion, he was more than happy to try to stash the thought to the back of his mind, hoping the dread curling through his entire being would be trapped back there with it.

 It wasn’t.

 There were still too many unanswered questions, too many unknowns. If it was not Fenris, then _who?_ That Orlesian _farmer_? Doubtful. Was it an assassin? Did they slip quietly into the tower to speak to the spymaster and no one even knew? Was Fenris lying? Was he just _that good_ at lying? Was this all just some plot that Leliana put together out of boredom, to fuck with the societal outcast and push him toward running back home?

 The fact that _that_ was the most likely outcome he’d come up with yet left Dorian feeling... Well, _used_.

 Something dark began gnawing at him, and all at once, Dorian’s body was constricting, his throat was suddenly too large to swallow, and the backs of his eyes burned while his brain started to pound at his skull. He shut his eyes against it all, the only sound at the table being the clink of coin as the dwarf and elf betted back and forth, neither giving in, and the offbeat, repetitive sound only made everything worse.

 The tension did not leave his shoulders, and so Dorian tried to alleviate it through the only way he knew how: Running his mouth.

 “Tell me, Fenris.” He tapped his knuckles against his folded hand, regarding the other Tevinter, if not Tevinter-born, and the elf’s shoulder hunched, albeit only slightly. Fenris looked at him, nostrils flared, and his pupils contracted just slightly at the mage in warning. Dorian’s heart sped up while his throat tightened, but he pushed on. “That day in the Hanged Man; when your - what was it, sister, brother - either way. When your master came back for you. Did it _really_ happen as it did in the book? Were there quippy remarks tossed back and forth before Hawke gave you her leave to rip his heart from his chest, or did you bite first like a rabid dog, and Varric had to make up something a little more pleasant for his readers so as not to make you out to be a villain?”

 He wasn’t sure why he’d said it. The dark feeling that had been slithering around his bones since the day before had lashed out, using his tongue as its weapon. Regret curled pathetically in his stomach, and the dread tamped it down, using it as fuel instead. He wanted, _needed_ to know why the elf was here. If he knew they’d be travelling together, he’d tell Dorian to shut up, punch him, tough it out, put Dorian in his place, do _something_ to give himself away.

 Until it happened, Dorian wouldn’t know what to be looking for.

 As it was, Fenris stared, his markings shimmering menacingly through his clothing. Nothing was said, but the vehemence in his eyes, paired with silent question, struck a chord within Dorian. The dread coiled, and lashed out again before he could think to pull it back.

 “How much was he offering for her to give you back, anyway?”

 The elf was a flurry of movement, his entire form shifting into some ethereal mess of designs for a split second while Varric swore loudly, practically throwing himself on the table between them. Dorian could hear the song of the fade in that moment before it was gone again, and Fenris had his hands on the table, corporeal and silent, his face painted in the light of his still-glowing lyrium. Varric kept his arm held out, uttering soothing statements and apologies on Dorian’s behalf, even while Dorian did nothing to defend himself, other than shutting his own mouth.

 In his chest, his heart was racing, and for the briefest of morbid moments, Dorian wondered how many seconds he had left to live.

 The hall had fallen to silence, all eyes in the room watching whatever was about to unfold at the dwarf’s regular table. Fenris stood with his fists on the surface, the metal tips of his gauntleted knuckles gouging into the wood. He inhaled, and Dorian watched him hold it, barely recognizing that he was doing the same.

 Without a word, Fenris turned his back to the table, and began to stalk his way out of the hall. Anyone who stood between him and the door, upon taking one glance at the elf’s face, made every effort to not be in his way.

 “Fenris! _Fenris,_ he’s just being a _dick_ , don’t... Fenris!” The elf did not slow, and the dwarf rounded on Dorian, pressing his fists to the table. “ _Andraste’s ass_ , Dorian. The _fuck_ is wrong with you?!”

  _I wish I knew,_ his thoughts supplied, even though his heart, and that gnawing pit in his stomach, knew better.

 Not that it changed anything.

 “Was it something I said?” He said instead, eyes on Fenris’ retreating back, and Dorian felt a vicious surge of... What was that, _pride_? It had no place being there, he knew that much, but - if Fenris _was_ in on Leliana’s plan, maybe he’d just screwed it up so royally that she’d have to rethink it. To that thought, hope rekindled in his chest, and the buoyancy of it warred with the heavy guilt that continued to chew on his insides. He turned to Varric, who was shaking his head and collecting the cards from the table, ignoring the abandoned pile of Fenris’ winnings. “-Beg your pardon, I haven’t been sufficiently swindled yet.”

 “And today you won’t be, Sparkler.” The dwarf sighed, and stacked the cards neatly in front of him before shuffling them. “Honestly, you’re lucky that you’re still breathing. Broody must have been practicing his backwards counting.”

 Tucking the deck away, Varric turned to slide off of his seat, and paused, tapping his fist against the table distractedly and staring off at nothing in particular.

 “...Dorian,” He started, his brow furrowing, and the mage sat back in his seat. “And I’m telling you this because you’re my friend. Get your head out of your ass. Burning bridges for shits and giggles isn’t the way to make friends. You’re walking a pretty tight line, here.” Silence reigned for a tense moment, and with a sigh, the dwarf slid out of his chair, his boots making tough leathery sounds against the stone with each step as he made his way out of the keep.

 Dorian said nothing, and watched him go.

 When Varric was finally gone, and the guard at the door had stopped with the heavy stare, the Altus sat forward in his chair, set his elbows on the table, and put his head in his hands.

 Of course, he knew that Varric was right. But that dark, desperate feeling was only growing inside him, and Dorian knew, _hated_ that he knew, that it wouldn’t be the last time that it got the better of him.

 Shame crept up his throat, saying such nasty things to a man who hadn’t deserved it, a man who could’ve killed him for it, and _didn’t_ , and that only made it so much _worse_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I’ll be honest, I had a hard time writing this chapter. It does lead to a little more exposition on the high-volatility conversations that the two will engage in over the course of the story; Dorian has a tendency to put his feet in his mouth via venomous insults where he knows it’ll hurt when he’s in a horrendous mood, and Fenris has had more than enough of that bullshit to last him a lifetime, so has less than zero patience for it.
> 
> Maybe I’ll get lucky and a brawl will start. 
> 
> Who loves writing fight scenes. /two thumbs at ‘dis bitch.
> 
> Either way. I may come back and edit this chapter later. The writing during Dorian’s word vomit episode is rushed and scattered and that’s how his brain feels while he can’t get this thought process out of his head, but... I dunno. Maybe I’ll just slap myself and make them work it out with words.
> 
> UH. I’LL STOP RAMBLING. Thank you so much for continuing this far! It’s only up from here, I promise. Mostly. /slides in a drama tag. Yyyyeah.
> 
> (Edited in the April 2016 overhaul.)


	4. Bridges

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes friends have to push you in the proper directions. Or more wrong ones. Either way, it’s one foot in front of the other.

The war room was dimly lit, half of the candles having burned down to stubs without the Inquisition's advisors constantly there to replace them - whether by simple neglect or an active avoidance, the war room had barely been set foot in since Corypheus' defeat. The Inquisitor's burning eye marker still was still embedded into the wood through the vellum atop the Temple of Sacred Ashes.

"I hear you're bad at making friends."

In the silence of the room, the sudden voice was piercing. Startling, the Altus glanced up from the war table, his finger having been following along the Imperial Highway laid out on the well-worn maps. He searched the dim of the room, and his eyes found Lavellan, her pale hair more dishevelled than usual. She closed the massive carved door in near silence behind her - he hadn't even heard her open it. It unnerved him, sometimes, how quiet the archer could be, if she wished it. It was probably an elf thing - which only made his thoughts take a much darker turn. Truly, if Fenris _wanted_ him dead, after he'd made an ass of himself, if being proficient in silent assassinations was indeed an _elf thing_ -

Now that he was concentrating on it, he could hear the soft shuffle of her feet as she moved toward the table. "What are you doing in here, anyways?" She kept her voice down, as though it might echo off of the stone walls if she were to be any louder. Dorian managed a short, distracted smile, and turned his eyes down to the map again.

"Oh, I was just guessing at which point the awkward silence would end and our guest might actually _really try_ to kill me on the road. I'm guessing somewhere before Val Royeaux, but there might be too many eyes in the area. I'm not sure, however, if he much cares -" He looked up again to a curious, owlish gaze, and as Lavellan stepped closer, further into the light of the candles, he could see it wasn't only the play of shadows that lead to her haggard complexion. "- But enough about me, you look like _shit_ , Inquisitor."

Amber eyes glanced up again and Dorian saw her head clearing, her questions running to the wayside while she levelled him with a deadpan stare. "Thank you, Dorian. Too kind."

"I'm being serious." Dorian admonished, and Lavellan crossed her arms with a snort. Thankful for the reprieve, even if it was just to speak of miseries that were not his own, the mage let his brows furrow in friendly concern. "You don't look well, Lavellan. Have you been eating? Sleeping? Speaking, to anyone, for anything, maybe about Cas-"

" _Ah_ -" The elf cut him off sharply, lifting a dark hand. He paused, and she huffed out a breath, her hand remaining up to hold his words at bay. "Oh, no. You don't get to try to give me advice on unrequited love, Dorian." She sounded tired, her brows pinched together. "I already get it enough from Josephine and her underhanded reports. And after what happened between you and Bull-"

The mage bristled suddenly, crossing his own arms across his chest. "And what's that supposed to mean?"

"That I don't want to hear it from you." The elf deflected, tucking wispy hair behind her ear and blinking large, perceptive eyes across the map, her eyes flicking over Orlais and pausing on Val Royeaux. "So where are you going? And with whom?" She sounded genuinely curious, and Dorian caught his breath in his throat, his hands gripping suddenly at the inside of his elbows. His sudden stab of defensiveness pinched and twisted in his gut.

_Tell no one._

_How many_ were in the dark on this? Was this even something that needed doing, if it did not go through every channel of the Inquisition?

Was Leliana _this_ backhanded, that she would not tell the _Inquisitor_ what the _Inquisition_ had asked of him?

"Ah.. Nowhere important," He shrugged eventually, smiling stiffly, and judging by Lavellan's scrutinizing stare, he was a bad liar. "So who told you? About my ineptitude at being civil to strangers, I mean." He veered from the topic, his arms tightening across his chest, and Lavellan shrugged herself, reaching to pluck the Inquisition marker from the table. Pressing a hip up against the slab of wood, she twirled the marker between her fingers, and then stabbed it into the Waking Sea.

"Mutual friend. Smart mouth. Glorious chest hair."

Dorian gave a snort, and managed an honest smirk with a nod. "Figures," He breathed, and sighed, pressing his palms heavily against the wood. "I ... I'm sorry. I know you called him here, I just - I don't know what came over me. I've said some horrible things, in my time, and..."

"And some of them, you don't know how to fix?" He glanced up, and Lavellan was watching him curiously. "You aren't usually so out of step with people who would be your allies, though, Dorian. What _happened_?" Her gaze was piercing, despite the dark circles under her eyes, and Dorian fidgeted, thumb playing with the rings on his hand in an attempted distraction before forming a proper response.

"I..." He began, and then faltered, his sentence dying before ever really getting started. He shrugged instead, and the Inquisitor crossed her arms, narrowing her eyes at him in disappointed confusion. Eventually, she made a low noise, and shook her head.

"Stubborn," She whispered, and Dorian let out a half-hearted chuckle, wholeheartedly agreeing. The slight lift in his mood didn't last long.

Something scratched at the back of his throat, itching to get out.

_Gereon._

"-Inquisitor," He blurted out, and Lavellan looked up, blinking at him with those large elvhen eyes. "I - Alexius." He wrung his hands, and the elf only blinked again, her eyebrows drawing together. "That is, Leliana said some... _Unnerving_ things, the other day. Alexius isn't dead, is he?"

Lavellan looked taken aback. "What? No, no - _Dorian_. I spoke to him just this morning. He's well. Why would he be dead?"

_'This must be believable,'_ The memory of Leliana's wretched voice was in his head again, and he wondered suddenly just how many things that the spymaster kept from the figurehead. He wondered, also, why his brain was sabotaging him and how many more times he would hear her words repeated back to him.

"-Never mind," He found himself saying, despite the dread curling in his gut. "I'm just... Just - don't let anything happen to him, alright?"

Lavellan stared at him in surprised silence for a moment, two, and then opened her mouth. Without a word, she closed it again, and narrowed her eyes critically. "Dorian, what would happen to him-" She cut herself off to let out a yelp of noise when the mage was suddenly moving, leaning over the table to grab at her forearms. His face read panic, and his heart was hammering in his ribcage. He _needed-_

" _Just promise me-"_

"Alright, alright! I promise!" Lavellan yanked away and put up her hands, palms extended towards him to fend him off. "I promise." She repeated, her voice softening as the mage's shoulders sagged. Slowly, she leaned in and seized him by the elbows, ducking her head to catch his downcast eye. "Dorian... Are _you_ alright?" The tattoos on her forehead tightened and wrinkled together, and her voice lowered to a whisper. "...You're scaring me."

Dorian inhaled shakily, and let out a puff of a laugh. He shook the elf off of him, and took a step back from the table, out of reach with a deep breath, lifting a hand to scrub tiredly at his face. His voice, when he finally spoke, was quiet, if a little haggard. "To be completely honest, I think I'm scaring _myself._ "

Silence settled over the war room once again, besides the clink of Dorian's buckles as he dropped one arm, the other raking his fingers through his hair, trying fruitlessly to alleviate some of his mounting stress. The archer was still staring at him, trying to blink away the numbing exhaustion that had been her state of being for months. It was sluggish to dissipate. "...What's going on?"

"Nothing." He said, too quickly, and she did not look convinced. The Altus sighed, heavily, and dropped his other arm. "It's nothing you have to worry about."

"Well, Dorian, I'm worrying." She pried, and Dorian exhaled harshly through his nose. He swallowed, and avoided her gaze, instead picking up an abandoned pen and fiddling with it. Ink welled from the tip as he pressed his finger against the forked nub, and he stared at the black spot instead of at the elf. "So it's too late for that."

"Then _stop worrying_ ," He said testily, more to the ink on his finger than the woman on the other side of the table. He heard her growl in frustration, and swore under his own breath, throwing the pen down, where is skittered off the map and onto the floor on the other side. "It doesn't _matter!_ Even if I -" He cut himself off, and his lungs hurt with the effort in which it took to hold his words in. Much more of this, and he'd crack. He never signed up with the Inquisition to lie, to turn coat, to _betray anyone_ -

"What, so this last year has meant nothing? We've fought everything the world, void, that the _fade_ has thrown at us! Are we not _friends_ , Dorian? Whatever it is, you can _tell me_ -"

" _I can't!"_ 'He blurted out above her, throwing his hands out, and the force with which she snapped her mouth shut clacked, the sound echoing in the sudden silence. Dorian inhaled, and it came out in a rush, while he resolutely kept his eyes off of the hurt expression that was aimed at him. "Listen, Inquisitor. I... If you need to know, I'm _sure_ you'll hear about it. I... I can't."

Lavellan stared at him, swallowed, and gave him a stiff nod. "Fine."

His jaw worked uselessly for a minute, and then Dorian was reaching, plying for words to right every misstep he'd been making since sitting down with that wretched woman at the top of the tower the day before. None came, and he deflated when Lavellan turned, heading for the door. "Inquisitor," He started, fruitlessly, and frowned when instead of leaving, she leaned down to pluck an object from the ground in the dim, turning and returning to the table. With a heavy clink, she set the wine bottle onto the map, then pulled her arm back.

"For Fenris," She started softly, like something was caught in her throat. She didn't look at him. "Varric... Said it would probably be something he liked. I figured that... Perhaps gifts would be the best way to start smoothing things over. If I'm _overstepping,_ " Her voice took a bitter turn, and Dorian's chest lurched, "Then say so, and I'll take it back."

"Wh - no. Lavellan," He licked his lips, and frowned at himself with a heavy breath, wringing his hands in front of himself again. "That is... I'm sorry. For everything." He continued to fidget, and the Inquisitor eventually looked up at him. He licked his lips, clenching his teeth, and did his best to shake off the dread if only just long enough to reassure her. To his credit, his voice was mostly believably light, as though their talk had lifted some of the weight from his shoulders. " _Thank you_. I've been an absolute lummox lately, I know. But at least you can't stay mad at this beautiful face?" His lips stretched, and Lavellan stared at him, blinking widely before letting out a small laugh.

"Creators, Dorian," She snorted, and shook her head again, though this time it was tipped more toward affection than disappointment. _At least there was that_ , he thought. She grabbed hold of the wine and slid it forward, toward the mage, her lips pulling into a small smile. "You're unbelievable. Here, go, mend the bridge you so valiantly burnt to charcoal this afternoon. And wherever you're going - at least come and see me before you leave?"

Her eyes were on him, and he did his best to keep his smile convincing. "Of course, Inquisitor."

They held eye contact for longer than would have normally lead to him thinking that she entirely believed him, but she nodded, and left without another word.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thank you all for reading! Ugh, I promise, Fenris and Dorian eventually interact. Nicely, even. All polite and shit. Yeah. PERHAPS IN THE NEXT CHAPTER. OR SOMETHING.
> 
> C'MON, DORIAN. HOW MUCH MORE CAN WE SET ON FIIIIRE.


	5. Wrong Foot, Right Foot

The sun had already long dipped past the high horizon of the mountainside when Dorian found himself in front of the Herald’s Rest. The training soldiers of the yard had retired to their quarters or within the tavern, and the evening air had already dropped a considerable amount in temperature. He stared at the closed tavern door, the warm light seeping through the cracks of the ancient wood, the jovial din of the regulars muted, but present. Maryden’s strings flowed over all of it, and Dorian pursed his lips, staring at the threshold.

 The weight of Lavellan’s gift was heavy in his left hand, and the guilt he held at the same time simply for having taken it when they left each other in such a state... _Maker,_ he hoped that she would not be left in the dark. The details of this plan, this mission - the thought that most everyone in the keep would think nothing of him but a traitor - his breath lodged painfully in his throat, and Dorian forced himself to take a step forward. Even if he simply took the wine for himself and drained it if he couldn’t find the elf, he needed something to wash down the guilt. When he pushed the door open, the minstrel’s music overpowered the voices inside, and he caught the Chargers waving their mugs in the air to Maryden’s tune, halfway to loaded already. Dorian wasn’t positive of the hour, having lost all sense of it in the war room, but it also wasn’t a rare occurrence to see them passed out at the table long before last call.

 A glance around had him spotting the beaten back of the breastplate Fenris still wore, sitting in relative privacy alone at a small table in the back corner, close to the bar. His shoulders were hunched, just slightly, and Dorian stared for a moment at his back, and then felt eyes on him. A glance behind the stairs had him locking eyes with the Iron Bull, and Dorian straightened subconsciously, averting his gaze to stride with purpose toward the elf’s back. From the set of the dim candles about the place, his shadow loomed over Fenris before he even arrived, and the warrior tensed, but did not move. Dorian could see one hand on the table’s surface tighten into a fist, and with a count to five, it was loosened again. The wolf did not, however, turn around. Dorian licked his lips, searching for words, and relied instead on wit, trying to ease the inevitable tension.

 "You shouldn't drink alone, you know. Bad for the soul."

 Fenris snorted, and did not bother looking up. "What would a mage know of something they do not possess?"

 “ _Oh_ ,” Dorian almost startled, his lips spreading into a surprised grin. “And now I see it; your humor only comes out when you’re drinking. _Well_ , let’s keep that up then, shall we?” A pause, and Fenris lifted his eyes only briefly to that, the venom in his stare so potent it had his strained smile wilting. Dorian exhaled and leaned forward, over Fenris’ shoulder to place the bottle he’d held by his hip onto the table in front of the elf - the way Fenris tensed at the proximity was not lost on him - and carefully, so as not to have his clothing brush the elf’s shoulder on the way back, Dorian leaned away again. Just to be safe, he took a small step back and away from the elf’s chair. “Let’s call it a peace offering; I hear it’s a vintage you rather enjoy.”

 The elf seemed to give pause, and then exhaled, but still did not look up. “Call it what you wish,” He said instead, and tapped his thumb against the table absently.

 Rounding the small table, the mage pulled out a chair, and sat. Thrusting a hand out - maybe not all the way across the table, fearing for his digits - Dorian licked his lips and rushed out a breath. “Truce?”

 Fenris said nothing, not touching the proffered bottle left in front of him, nor the extended hand, instead lifting the flagon he already had in front of him to his lips, taking a long draught of whatever was contained within. Blazing green eyes stared at him, and Dorian didn’t miss the way that his markings lit up, even if not at their full brilliance. He licked his lips absently, and when eloquence failed him, he just let the words fall out of his mouth.

 “Listen, Fenris... I’m sorry. I _was_ being a dick, earlier; it’s been a... _Very_ trying couple of days.”

 Slowly, the flagon was set back down on the table, and Fenris’ tongue darted out briefly to catch the remaining liquid on his lips. His eyes never left Dorian’s. “And you think that is a reasonable excuse, mage?”

 Dorian frowned, and his tongue continued with its brain-to-mouth open sieve. “You keep saying _mage_ as though it’s an insult-”

 “That is because I mean it to be.”

 The Altus bristled at the sharp tone, and reined it in with a harsh breath. “I’m _sorry_ , I said-”

 “Apologies, sometimes, are not good enough.” The elf shot back, his fingers gripping suddenly at the handle of his flagon. The din of the tavern quieted, just for a moment, but resumed when their conversation didn’t escalate further in volume. Fenris sat forward, fixing Dorian with intense green eyes, and kept his voice trained at a lower tone. “I’ve acknowledged that you said it. Unfortunately for you, we are far away from your home and where your probable entitlement lies, so I am not under societal duress to accept it. You will simply have to go on feeling adequately like refuse, until your ego gets the better of yourself, and you forget that you’d ever offended me at all.”

 Dorian had fallen into the back of his chair, unabashedly staring at the elf. It took him a moment to remember that he’d been extending his hand, and he flexed his empty fingers absently before reeling his arm back, fingertips pressing into his palm before dropping onto his lap. “...Eloquently put as that was, I don’t think my ego will ever _let_ me forget it.”

 “ _Good._ ” Fenris responded quietly, and drained the rest of his ale.

 Minutes passed in silence, and Dorian spent the entire time fidgeting, the sole of one boot tapping mindlessly against the worn planks of the floor. Fenris studiously ignored him - that is, until the mage inhaled, threw his hands onto the table, and opened his mouth to speak. “Can... We at least _try_ to get along?”

 Fenris lifted one dark brow at him. “Must we?”

 “Well,” The Altus blurted out, grabbing the wine from in front of the elf. He wedged the cork out, took down a mouthful, and then set it down in front of the newcomer again. This time, Fenris slid his eyes to the mouth of the bottle, and then back to Dorian. “Not if we both want to survive long enough to get there.”

 The elf regarded him in a thoughtful silence, and abandoned the empty flagon to try a sip of the wine. Dorian watched the bob of the warrior’s throat as he swallowed, and the mage inhaled, the lines of scarring there entirely too interesting to look at. Fenris’ eyes closed for a second, and he set the bottle down again. When his eyes opened, the sharp emerald color caught Dorian off guard. “Another cryptic phrase. Get where?”

 Dorian blinked his daze away, and let out a strained noise. “I’m being cryptic?” He said, instead of answering the question. “ _I’m_ being cryptic.”

 “You are,” Was Fenris’ short answer.

 The mage stared at him. And stared. And then Dorian was cursing under his breath. “ _Says the tit that refuses to give me any straight answers-_ ” He scowled, and reached for the bottle.

 Fenris was quick to place his fingertips over the mouth of it, keeping it where it sat when Dorian reached, and the mage let out a small noise, shooting another glare at him. Fenris’ voice was even, almost amused, and Dorian dropped his hand, rings colliding with the table in a series of light taps. “Go get your own.”

 The corners of Fenris’ mouth quirked upwards, just slightly, and Dorian stared for a moment, stunned.

 Indignant, the mage stood suddenly, and marched his way to the dwarf across the room. Maryden fought a yawn as she strummed away while he passed, sliding easily into a slow tune that was easy on the ears in the dead of night. It probably wouldn’t be long before she retired until morning. When he arrived at the counter, he slapped his hands onto its surface. The tavern keep turned his face up from where he was crouching behind the bar, his permanent frown affixed firmly in place.

 “What.”

 Dorian, used to the short conversations with the dwarf, wasn’t fazed. He ordered another bottle of wine, a cheaper vintage than the Tevinter one that Lavellan had scored for him, but the most decent of the lot that wasn’t locked away in the keep’s cellars. It was set gracelessly in front of him once coin was produced, and the dwarf grabbed a curved knife from under the counter, wedging the cork halfway out before leaving it there. The Chargers had taken into another bout of singing, and he could feel eyes on his back. He didn’t dare glance behind him to see whether they belonged to an elf, or the qunari he’d been avoiding for two weeks. Dorian stared at the lonely bottle, the weight of his coin purse heavy in his hand.

 He tightened his lips, and ordered another.

 When he sat back down, glass thunked against the tabletop, and Fenris spared him a glance. Determined, Dorian held his gaze, and slid one of his bottles forward and into the middle of the table. “I’m not cryptic.” He stated, and the elf stared at him, lifting his brows before snorting. “Did Leliana summon you?”

 The elf blinked, and his brows furrowed. “Who?” Dorian tried to read his face, and again, _nothing_ was giving this elf away. He scowled, working the cork out of his own bottle, and chewed at his lip for a moment before trying again.

 “Who signed your summons?”

 Maybe, just maybe, when asked the question enough times, the elf would grow tired of the game and just _tell him_.

 “The Inquisition,” Fenris answered, slowly, as if he was beginning to doubt Dorian’s intellectual prowess. Dorian ruffled at the look, and sat up straighter. His rings tinked irritably against the neck of his wine, and he inhaled sharply.

 “Yes, thank you. Very specific. But did Leliana sign off on it?”

 Fenris frowned, albeit curiously, and stared at Dorian for a fraction of a second longer than necessary, taking another sip from his own bottle before answering. Dorian had been so preoccupied on getting answers, it didn’t even occur to him until the elf’s second gulp that he hadn’t bothered getting either of them glasses. Fenris didn’t seem to care, setting the wine down to lift both of his hands, scratching absently at the inside of one wrist. “No one did. There was a...” He trailed off, brows twitching, and he tightened his lips. “Sigil. I’m told it is supposed to resemble a burning eye.” Dorian blinked at him, and then pursed his lips, reading where this was going with a tiny snort. “It... Does not look like it.”

 Dorian could only agree, and Fenris frowned suddenly when he glanced again at the mage to find him smiling. He grabbed suddenly at the bottle Dorian had presented him with, and took a long pull from it.

 “What do you _want_ , mage.”

 “...I have a proposition.” One dark brow rose, but while Fenris did not say anything, his green eyes were curious, waiting for the mage to go on. “We drink.” The stare he received was almost priceless, and he felt the corners of his mouth pulling further upward while he leaned forwards, perhaps a little conspiratorially, over the table. “More specifically, I make up for the shitty things I said earlier by buying you enough alcohol that you can’t see straight, and by the time the night is over, you at least _try_ to forgive me.”

 Fenris glared at him, critically, and then eyed the wine left abandoned in the center of the table. “Try anything, mage, and I _will_ end you.”

 Exhaling in a rush, Dorian’s smile turned genuine, and he lifted a hand as he leaned back, three fingers over his heart. “Tevinter’s honor.” Fenris, who’d been reaching for the center bottle, paused, and then huffed through his nose with a pointed glare at the mage. Dorian opened his mouth, and then sighed in aggravation, grabbing his own bottle and extending it toward the elf, held in the air. “Shut up and drink.”

 

✵✵✵

 

Fenris tipped the bottle back once more, and paused, his eyes cracking open. He pulled the glass from his lips, still upside down, and Dorian let out a quiet, drunken moan of grief to find it empty. Fenris grunted, unimpressed, and set the bottle onto the table, knocking one of the other three empty ones over, and Dorian managed to shoot a hand out to catch it before it rolled off of the table.

 The bottle didn’t deserve a tragic, shattering end.

  _No_ , his bitter, inebriated mind supplied. _Only handsome mages and good-looking elves deserved such fates._

 With every passing moment, he only seemed to be convincing himself more and more that Fenris was the one coming with him, and he was just really good at hiding it. If he knew what was good for him, in the coming weeks on their way back North, he would have to ask how the elf did it. Being untrue had never been his strong suit - he needed all the help he’d ever be able to get. Instead, he spoke little, and Fenris rarely spoke at all, draining bottles of wine and, coincidentally – Dorian’s wallet. He watched Fenris, distracted, as the elf seemed to be evaluating the latest empty bottle, and leaned forward. The small motion had the room tipping, but at least Maryden had called it a night, and the waltzing, spiralling rhythms of her songs were no longer spinning his brain in circles.

 “Do you want another?” He offered to the elf, and Fenris furrowed his brows, snorting and shaking his head.

 “No.” Even in his state, his answers were short, succinct; yet he kept staring at the bottle, as though it was doing something wrong. He inhaled suddenly, and seemed to remember his manners, somewhere far off in the dark recesses of his mindset. “Thank you. I think I’ve... Had enough.”

 Lifting an elbow onto the table, Dorian trusted one fist to hold his chin up, and he kept his eyes forward. The tavern was eerily silent, the only sound other than them being the grumbling of the stocky dwarf behind the bar, and the hushed voices of two people arguing upstairs. “Mm,” He nodded, feeling rather sage in his bout of coming advice. “So you will stare at the bottle and wait for it to fill itself, then, or....?”

 “I want to break it.” Was Fenris’ response, instead, and Dorian inhaled sharply. His lids were heavy, and instead of thinking it a horrendous idea at this void-taken hour, he chuckled, and shrugged his shoulders.

  _Maybe the bottle deserved the same fate, after all._

 “Do it, then.”

 He didn’t think that the elf actually, truly would. It was only after Fenris looked at him, that curious look crossing his features again, that Dorian began to take him seriously, and by the time Fenris had pushed himself to his feet, pulling his arm back, it was too late.

 The bottle smashed violently in the din of early morning, and Dorian yelped, staring at the elf in stupid awe before bursting out into laughter. “ _Fenris!”_ He gasped, swearing, and turned his head to survey the wreckage. The bottle had impacted the wall just barely to the right of the wall behind the bar area, leaving behind a dark smear of whatever remnants had been left in it. Dark greenish glass littered the floor under it, the neck, still mostly intact, rolling lopsidedly away from the scene. The dwarf behind the bar, however, did not look so amused - in fact, he looked as though he was about to hop out from behind it and commence with a shit-kicking. Scrambling to his feet, Dorian lifted placating hands, stumbling through an apology between bouts of chuckling and just possibly a snort.

 Or two.

 “We’re leaving, we’re leaving!” He promised the dwarf, who had picked up a chair anyways and looked ready to throw it. Dorian was still laughing, and glanced only briefly at Fenris, who was bewilderedly staring at him for it. The sound of his own laugh caught in Dorian’s throat at the look, and the mage inhaled, mouth moving a little as a heady haze took over his balance. “ _Leaving~_ ” He gasped, and quickly made his way for the door.

 They stumbled out into the courtyard, and Dorian was still getting over the leftover wheeze from his laugh. It had turned into a spattering of manic giggles during their escape, and when they fell into a stop shoulder to shoulder, he absently leaned into the elf, his palm lifting to press against the small of Fenris’ back. His hand was heavier than he really intended, and absently, his fingers gripped at the elf’s tunic by the base of his spine.

 In less than a second, he saw stars.

 As in, literal stars, facing the night sky head-on, the air having been knocked out of his lungs with the force of which he’d hit the ground. The giggles ceased abruptly, and the wheezing became exponentially more labored. Eyes, glowing gold in the pitch of the night, accented the dark figure looming over him, white-blue design ablaze.

 “ _Do not touch me,_ ” Fenris was snarling, and Dorian stared, wide eyed. His lungs burned, and his mouth flapped uselessly until he caught enough breath to puff out an apology.

 “- _’m sorry_ -” He rasped, flapped a hand uselessly from his supine position on the rocky yard, and felt dreadfully sober, inebriation knocked right out of him in one swift, skeleton-jarring moment. He swallowed, with difficulty, and his breath was a little more in control, his voice a little easier to grind out, with his second attempt. “ _Wasn’t thinking_ ,” Was all he could manage, but his voice was at least legible, and the golden glow from Fenris’ eyes dimmed slightly, as though his eyes had narrowed.

 Fenris seemed to pause, exhaling, and then he was out of view. Dorian listened to the scrape of small stones against the beaten pathway, back and forth, pacing.

 “Wasn’t thinking...” He mumbled again, the ache of his body catching up to him. He hadn’t been taking in nearly enough water, if he’d even had any at all - he couldn’t remember having any at all, and his muscles were screaming at him for it. Fenris was silent, only the sound of his feet on the pathway giving away the fact that he was still there at all.

 “...I feel as though you do not think for a _great many_ actions you’ve taken in your life.” He said finally, and Dorian wished he had it in him to laugh at that. He doubted that many more things had been said about him in his life that was truer than that statement. His chuckle, or what he managed of it, was broken, cut off by a ragged heave of air. Fenris stared, and Dorian gave himself another twenty seconds of feeling sorry for himself before pushing his aching body into motion. By then, Fenris had taken to pacing again, chewing on one of his thumbs, apparently trying to work out the sudden tension that the simple touch had elicited.

 “Ohh... Suppose that means that you haven’t forgiven me, after all,” Dorian groaned as he sat up, gingerly pawing at his own ribs. The wolf was still pacing, stalking back and forth, back and forth, leaving a trail of light behind him while the dark played tricks on the mage’s eyes. He pressed at his spine, swore under his breath, and at the same time, both of their voices rang out in the quiet of the courtyard.

 “I’m sorry-”

_“I’m sorry-”_

 They startled themselves into another bout of silence, staring at each other in the dark.

 It took Dorian a while to break the stillness, his ass still on the dirt. “... _Well_. I am suddenly… _Dreadfully_ sober, I think. I do, however, know where they keep the liquor that is not, in fact, swill. I wouldn’t turn down company, either, if I killed your buzz. No more accidents. Promise.”

 Fenris blinked, the gold of his eyes gone for the briefest of seconds, and Dorian held out an arm, reaching for the elf to help him to his feet. The warrior hesitated, briefly, and then grasped his wrist and palm with each hand, heaving him to his feet. Dorian lurched forward, and caught himself, gripping at Fenris’ palm as he did. This time, the elf held him steady - as steady as he could, considering he’d probably had twice what Dorian did - and Dorian tried to focus on anything other than the sweet smell of wine on the elf, or the smell of conditioned leather, the hint of oil and clove.

He pulled back, steadying himself, and nodded at Fenris, whose unnerving metallic gaze never left him in the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I should probably figure out a better copy/paste system than wattpad before I get to the steamy chapters. Does wattpad allow steamy chapters? I don't even know. STAY TUNED FOR MY POSSIBLE BANNINATION FROM WATTPAD, ERRYBODY.
> 
> Woah, three chapters in a day. Iiiii'm amazed at myself. Thank you for reading!! Kudos and comments are SO FRIGGIN' LOVED I CAN'T EVEN. CANNOT. EVEN.  
> (The steamy bits. THEY ARE COMING. AAAAHHHHHH HAHAHA YOU DON'T EVEN KNOW HOW LONG SINCE THE LAST TIME I PUT STEAMY THINGS ON THE INTERNET. THIS IS MONUMENTAL FOR ME.)
> 
> (Edited in the April 2016 overhaul! Mmmmm chapter merging. Mmmmmm longer chapters. Mmmmmm FIXED DIALOGUE.)


	6. The Cellar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (( Aaaand three thousand words later, I break my fingers, and update. ))

Wine flowed, bottles were emptied, and Dorian didn’t feel even slightly sorry for it. If the Inquisition was sending him to die, sending them _both_ to die, he was certainly going to drink his lifetime’s worth from their stores in a last hurrah. The lock had been easy enough to melt open, and while he was sure _some mage_ in the keep would be harassed for it in the morning - it was almost morning - either way, he could not be arsed to care, in that moment.

 Fenris’ mood had lightened, little by little, with the more alcohol he put in his system, and while there was a tension to the silence hanging in the air, neither man had said anything for quite some time.

 Dorian had to admit, he was a little curious why Fenris _had_ joined him in his looting of the cellars. Besides the apparent appreciation for certain kinds of wine. Even upon looting the place, the elf had been very specific, perusing the labelled crates until he found a vintage that he’d apparently settle for. Dorian wasn’t about to start complaining about the company, of course, so he hadn’t asked the why. Not when Fenris came with him, not when he broke in alongside him, and not when he picked his poison, settling in across the small alcove Dorian had decided he was going to dwell in for the foreseeable future, the dark browns and greys of his armor melding in with the mason work of the wall.

 Currently sampling some sort of Antivan brandy, the bottle black as night, Dorian hissed softly as the warmth of the liquid spread down his throat. The mage considered the stout bottle, the glasswork intricate and _very_ Antivan. Bold beveled diamonds were cut into the glass, reflecting light into the dark liquid and out against his knuckles; the burgundy satin ribbon tied around the flared neck of the bottle certainly finished the look. He considered briefly that the particular crate it came from might have been Josephine’s personal stock, and he _did_ feel a little guilty for that, but still took another pull from it. The liquor bit at the tip of his tongue, sweet until it hit his throat and set it on fire another time. He made another sharp noise, and Fenris snorted, but remained otherwise silent, taking another careful, measured sip of his own.

 The elf was easy enough to see in the light of the torches along the walls, and Dorian, back to feeling pleasantly inebriated, was probably being a little obvious in his watching of the elf. Either not noticing, or simply not caring, Fenris sat with his back against the stone and plaster wall, tipping the lip of the Ferelden honeyed wine between his lips again. He’d been nursing the same one since the silence had fallen, and the mage was starting to wonder if he should probably slow down. Considering his lips were beginning to numb, he probably should.

 Seeing as the Inquisition cellars, however, were full of barrels upon crates upon shelves upon bottles some of the rarest liquor that Thedas had to offer, Dorian simply did not _want_ to slow down.

 “ _Maker,_ you really aren’t one for idle conversation, are you?” The mage asked with a sudden laugh after one more swig, leaning back on the crate he’d made into an impromptu chair. The liquor had him impatient and fidgety; Fenris blinked at the sudden break in the silence, watching him, and his green eyes flashed in amusement while his lips were hidden by the mouth of the bottle. He shrugged without a word.

 The easy way in which he did had the knot in Dorian’s gut tightening. He didn’t feel guilt often; not in the way he felt it now.

 “...I... Really _do_ apologize for my callousness this afternoon. I know saying that won’t ever take it back, I was just -” He paused, and frowned, exhaling. Chewing at the inside of his cheek, he leaned his elbows onto his knees. “I lashed out at you to get back at someone else, and - and you didn’t deserve it. Not from me.”

 Fenris was watching him in silence, his face straight and unreadable.

 Dorian swallowed the lump in his throat, sat up, and went to take another sip of the brandy, his nose picking up a whiff of it before he stifled a sudden disgusted groan. Replacing the stopper, he shuddered, and set the bottle down.

 A low breath of a chuckle had him looking up. Fenris was lifting a brow at him, and the elf moved, grabbing the single unopened bottle from beside him and extending it to the mage. “Something to wash that down with?” Dorian blinked, and then managed a smile, taking the bottle with no small amount of gratitude and using a ring to assist in prying the cork out of it. Before he could take a drink, Fenris was speaking again. “I wonder: do you have to apologize for yourself this often in anyone’s company? Or is that privilege all mine?”

 Dorian snorted despite himself, and lifted his brows sharply before dropping them again. “All yours, I’m afraid.” He took a drink, and scowled at the taste of it mixed with the leftover sting of the brandy, but managed to get it down. “I’ve... Never failed quite so spectacularly at making a decent first impression than that with you, I think. I’m surprised you’re even here, to be honest. My brain is itching to ask _why_ but is also too afraid to.” He laughed shortly, and lifted a hand to rub at the short hair behind his ears. “I won’t blame you if you thought I’d be simpler to be rid of in a dim cellar after imbibing in enough liquor to kill a horse - but I might still try to light you on fire, if you do make an attempt.”

 His mouth was running. He had to stop it. The brandy was _definitely_ catching up to him - or catching up to the copious amount of wine in his system, at any rate. Dorian bit on his own tongue to shut himself up, and met Fenris’ gaze. The elf was watching him, dark brows half furrowed, half lifted, and entirely caught off kilter. His mouth twitched, and while a part of Dorian dreamt it was the warrior stifling a laugh, he had a feeling he would never be entirely sure.

 “Cryptic _and_ paranoid. If I’d wanted to be rid of you, mage, I would have brought my sword.”

`The answer gave Dorian pause, and he opened his mouth, letting it hang for a moment before shutting it again. His eyes were drawn to the lyrium carved into Fenris’ skin, and he swallowed. When he spoke, his voice was quiet. “If Varric tells whole truths, you don’t really need a sword.”

 Fenris’ gaze sharpened suddenly, and it took him a moment to relax again, settling a little further against the wall. “…I suppose that’s true,” He kept an eye on the Altus, as though waiting for something, and Dorian took another long drink. Silence settled once more, and this time it was Fenris who broke it. “Well?” He started, “Not going to gawk at Danarius’ handiwork? No demands to have me _light up_ to please you?”

 Dorian sat up slightly, brows furrowing. “Why would I ask you to?”

 “All Tevinter do.”

 Guilt rolled unpleasantly across the back of Dorian’s mind. He shifted in his seat, frowning, and licked at his lips, huffing out a breath. While he’d admit to being curious, he was at least glad that he had _some_ amount of personal restraint in having not asked. “Perhaps it might cross your mind at some point that I am not quite like _all Tevinter_.” He said defensively, and took another drink.

 Fenris blinked. The uncomfortable silence settled around them again, though this time, the weight of it was a little lighter on Dorian’s shoulders.

 He sighed, sat forward, and lowered his wine to lift his free hand and pinch at the bridge of his nose. His shoulders eventually relaxed, but the tightness behind his forehead did not fade. He sat up, and managed what he hoped was a disarming smile. “There are in fact a few Tevinter out there who are redeemable in character. Fortunately, some of us haven’t succumbed to _all_ temptations.”

 “Yet.” The elf added, almost automatically, and Dorian felt his expression fall, his mood sobering, even if his blood was swimming in liquor at this point.

 Fenris was looking at him again, the torchlight set off by the reflective light of his eyes. The fear that the mage had been trying all night to drown in liquor bubbled back to the surface, and that dark itch was back at the back of his mind. The constant fear of falling; of becoming something that he could not control. Be it by demons, or blood magic, or conniving spymasters, sending him away to become something he never wanted to be…

 Dorian’s mouth ran away from him a second time. With even less wit about him after the umpteenth bottle of wine, there was no catching it.

 “See - see that I _don’t_ , alright?” He fidgeted; knuckles and rings scraping the glass of the bottleneck in his hands.

 Green eyes narrowed, and Fenris mulled over his words. “...Why would that be my duty?”

 No real answer was forthcoming, so Dorian simply stared, holding his breath under the scrutinizing gaze. Eventually, he shrugged, half-laughing at himself without any real mirth, and Fenris relaxed only slightly. The warrior sat back, lifting his knees to rest his forearms across them. His eyes narrowed while his brows screwed together, and he seemed to be mulling something over, chewing on his words before releasing them.

 “You say that, and your opinion of me being the cryptic one remains standing?”

 “It does. You are. Can we change the subject?”

 Fenris seemed to read the tinge of desperation in his voice, and was merciful. He tilted his head. “We could go back to spitting insults at each other instead.” He shifted, leaning forward, brows lifting. Dorian wasn’t sure if a smirk was ghosting over the warrior’s lips, or if it was a trick of the light. “I have to say, it is quite enjoyable to spew profanities at an Altus without fear of repercussion.”

 “Probably not as refreshing as it is to hear someone call me of my proper rank instead of a Magister,” Dorian returned with half a breath, sitting up a little more. Apparently, they were both partaking in enough alcohol after all to lull themselves into some sort of semi-comfortable conversation, Fenris was simply _better at it._ Dorian did his best to shake off the lingering feeling of dread, and turned again to the wine in his hand. If this kept up, he’d very well develop a problem. Though - he’d take alcohol poisoning over turning to the Venatori any day.

 Fenris let out a scoff of a breath, and Dorian was pulled from his musing. “Every Tevinter mage is a Magister here.”

 “ _Apparently_.”

 Another snort. “It’s not so far off; every mage of the North dreams of becoming one. You’d think you would be flattered by the misconceptions of being some great, dark and powerful sorcerer.”

 “You know, if it didn’t come with a side of the bad sort of blood magic, I’d be terribly alright with that, but, as it stands – I have plenty enough reasons for people to hate me.”

 “Such as your rude tongue?”

 Dorian managed a little laugh. “Actually, that is something I’m rather more applauded for.” The retort earned him a shocked bit of a laugh, and he couldn’t help but grin a little at the reaction, biting at his lip. With every jibe, breathing came just a little easier.

 “That’s a wonder,” The elf shook his head, and took another drink. Dorian was caught in the motion of it, his breath hitching when Fenris wet his lips before continuing. He looked at Dorian from under his brows, his lips taking on that shadow of a smirk again, and the mage exhaled sharply. “Considering what an accomplished disaster you’ve made yourself out to be –“

 Inebriation made him foolish. Dorian leaned forward suddenly, clapping his hand over the elf’s mouth, and Fenris blinked, before chuckling into his palm. The mage startled at the sound, as well as the breath against his skin, but remained, staring at the elf who was decidedly _not_ attacking him for yet another invasion of his personal space.

 It was a step up from throwing him on the ground, at least.

 Batting the mage’s hand away, Fenris was smiling behind it, and Dorian caught his breath at the sight. Fenris’ hair, loosened from run-ins with lyrium-lined fingers brushing away stray strands, framed his face in silver in the low light, accented by the near-white scars curving under his bottom lip, branching out from the scored line down the center of his throat. The upward curve of his mouth unsettled the smattering of scars across his cheek and jaw; scars marking him as a man who thrived in close combat, who fought tooth and nail for everything he had in his life.

 “ _Are you even aware of how attractive you are_?”

 The elf tensed suddenly, his smile dropping, and in a rush of panic, Dorian realized he’d said it out loud. He inhaled sharply, stuttering out something, _anything_ to save himself. His drunken mind spun and slurred out a half-dozen responses, and if any of them reached his lips, he’d very much like to crawl in a hole later, but as it was, he made a series of illegible noises and frowned, covering his mouth with a fist. The elf set his wine on the floor. Dorian winced before staring down at his own feet, waiting for the onslaught of whatever colorful words the elf could come up with. ‘ _Stupid, stupid –‘_

 “Are you?”

 Dorian’s heart leapt into his throat. He choked on his breath in surprise, and turned his head up. The green gaze he met was even, and did not turn away when he blinked. His pulse quickened. “-Well, naturally,” Defense mechanisms kicking in, Dorian defaulted back to playing to his ego. “I’m surprised it took you this long to notice, really. I’m really a rather exemplary specimen, on most accounts.” His lips were pulling up at the sides, and he hoped they weren’t shaking – his heartbeat was pounding in his ears and throat.

 Fenris lifted a single brow, and his chuckle never made it louder than a breath. He sat back, shaking the tightness from his arms and shoulders, and shook his head. “Strong start, but you fumbled on the follow-through.”

 “- Beg pardon?”

 “Your skills of seduction are about as lackluster as your skill at first impressions – catering to _your own_ ego doesn’t suit you,” Fenris said lightly, his eyes narrowing in amusement, and the mage balked before snapping out a short laugh.

 Dorian had the heart to look offended, and scoffed, crossing his arms. “ _Seduction -_ Believe me, if I wanted to seduce you, I’d be doing a much better job of it.”

 “Oh?” Was the chuffed response, and Dorian, ruffled, lifted his shoulders with another breath. His heart was still racing from his brief panic; now even more so from Fenris’ teasing reciprocation. Dorian would not be surprised to learn that it was probably the wine talking, but still, it was certainly unexpected. He took in the steadiness of Fenris’ hands, the slight dilation of his pupils that could be accounted for by the dim or by consumption, that _smirk –_ he sniffed, haughtily, and shut his eyes in no small part to _stop looking_.

“Fact.”

Silence answered him, and the disbelief that he felt lying in it had Dorian’s pride just a little wounded. A gust of warm air wafted over his chin, and Dorian snapped his eyes open at the sudden close proximity, his lips parting in quiet surprise.

 He hadn’t heard the warrior move.

  _‘Definitely an elf thing_ ,’ he decided, the alcohol doing its good work on his reaction time _._ Fenris  loomed in front of him, silent, his gauntlets digging absently into the soft wood of the crate at either side of Dorian’s lap. The Altus lowered his wine, swallowing when the glass knocked against the elf’s stomach. His knuckles were brushing against smooth fabric, and he didn’t think to pull them away.

 When Fenris closed the remaining distance, pressing his mouth to Dorian’s own, the mage made a short, sharp sound, and his heart was going to give out, it was hammering so quickly in his chest.

 Fenris was kissing him.

  _Fenris_ was _kissing_ him.

 The skin of his lips were rough, unconditioned against the battering chill of the Frostbacks and the salty shores of the Storm Coast. Dorian’s breath left him, lost in the heat of the mouth pressing against his own.

 The lips broke away just as suddenly as they’d pressed in, and Dorian realized belatedly that he had not, in fact, returned the kiss, too lost in his own shock to respond. He gasped shortly, and Fenris pulled back, ripping his gaze away.

 “ _Venhedis_ ,” The elf hissed under his breath, and Dorian wasn’t exactly sure who was being cursed at.

  _‘Such an idiot_ ,’ he admonished himself. Even as Fenris stood suddenly, he sat in his damnably stunned, bewildered state.

 “...It is late,” The warrior said into the tense silence, and Dorian cracked out half a sound. Fenris was watching him, brows furrowing, before he cleared his throat and glanced away. “I should go.”

 With a shaky, rushed exhale, Dorian nodded, raking his fingers nervously through his hair. “That… Might be the responsible idea, yes.”

  _‘Though it was certainly not the only one,’_ his mind provided, and Dorian licked his lips absently. They tasted like wine that he had not been drinking. The breath rushed out of his lungs. ‘ _Not to mention I could use some severely irresponsible behaviour right now.’_

 Fenris spared him one more glance before hurrying out of the cellar. After staring at the empty door for what felt like hours, Dorian finally willed his muscles to move - still stunned, he sat forward, scrubbed his face with a hand, and left his palm pressing against his own mouth, the skin still tingling from the sudden press of the elf’s lips.

 When Dorian found his eyes drawn to the empty doorway again, he swore at himself before grabbing for the nearest bottle with anything left in it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I suppose that this chapter is karma for chapter 6 being so short. UH. SORRY FOR THE NOVEL. I couldn't find a decent place to break it up into two chapters, so here it is in all its 3k word count glory. HAVE IT. YAAAA.
> 
> Drunken headspaces are weird. Sober headspaces wondering where drunk headspaces were going off to are fun to write about, however. Hopefully the next chapter will not be such a beast, and I can update sooner! Thank you for your patience, and again, THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING. Comments are appreciated!
> 
> (Edited in the April 2015 overhaul! MMMM NEW DIALOGUE.)


	7. Amicus

“You wanna talk about it?”

Varric’s voice filled the chamber, and Fenris stared resolutely down at the table. “No."

The dwarf stared at him, shrugged with a shake of his head, and went back to work, but did not ask him to leave. His quarters, if they could be called as much before calling them a spare storage room that Varric only served to clutter further, were fairly dim, heavy curtains blocking most of the light from the day outside. Varric had said, once, that he preferred working by the light of candles; it added to the ambiance of the workspace. Fenris saw it more as a frivolity, and a waste of perfectly good candles.

 Varric gave him another few minutes of silence before breaking it, though he didn’t raise his eyes from the page. “-And I appreciate the thought, Broody, but I hate the wine here. What the flames am I going to do with four cases of it?”

 Fenris paused, and looked over to the corner of the room, where he had stashed said crates. The barkeep at the Herald’s Rest had been… Adamant that he pay for the mess he’d been forced to clean up, especially when he found Fenris sleeping on the upper floor in the morning. Skyhold was a maze in daylight; after dark it was an oubliette. Finding the room he’d been offered was beyond hope. Honestly, he was hoping that Varric wouldn’t notice the crates amidst the clutter. He cleared his throat quietly, guilty, and shrugged one shoulder, waving his hand upward. “Send it to Isabela, then. She’s always complaining that she’s low.”

 “On _wine_?” Varric snorted, looking up incredulously from his work.

 Fenris smirked. “On _everything_.”

 Another snort, and Varric shook his head complacently. “That sounds a little more like our girl. So, what, she didn’t come with you?”

“We are not attached at the hip, dwarf. Isabela does as she pleases.”

 Varric put up his hands in defense at Fenris’ short tone, and thick brows lifted on his forehead. “Woah, okay, didn’t mean to hit a nerve. You two were just cozying up the last time I saw you, and between that and finding you both scouring the Storm Coast –“

 “- Hunting slavers,” Fenris reminded him, and Varric sighed.

 “- Yeah. I just thought that you two were…” He trailed off, and made a series of rude hand gestures including fingers and holes and an obscene noise or two.

 Fenris stared at him, unamused by the gesturing. “Not that it would be any of your business, in any case. She – _we_ – have an agreement.”

 The writer stared at him for what seemed like a long time. Long enough for Fenris to feel uncomfortable under the calculating stare, anyways. Varric made a soft, thoughtful noise, and nodded. “Ship in every port?” Fenris made a sudden disgusted sound, and Varric grinned.

 “I could have done without that mental image, dwarf.” The elf complained quietly, and rubbed at his forehead with a knuckle. He flit his hand to the side, and dropped it again into his lap. “But as crass as the analogy may be… Essentially, yes. Isabela is a force of nature. I would not dream to confine her to myself alone.”

 “And that’s… _Good_ , with you?”

 Growing irritated, Fenris bristled, and held his breath. When he exhaled, it was with only a marginally calmer head. “More than. She is a comfort whenever I need it, just as I offer the same to her. Our lives separate us often; Isabela is not the type to wait and pine for a lover’s return.”

 “That’s fair.” Varric allowed, and made another thoughtful noise, pulling a blank bit of parchment from the side of his desk and scribbling on it in his odd shorthand. Fenris had never been able to decipher it, though with the current subject matter of their conversation, having the dwarf scribbling _anything_ had Fenris scowling. He was only spared the briefest of glances. “Y’know, _that face_ is why I call you Broody~” Varric’s tone was infuriatingly light, and his grin only widened when Fenris said nothing in return. “Okay, okay, I’ll stop with the grilling on the romance front. I don’t need any of the sordid details, anyway – Rivaini sends me _those_.”

 Fenris wasn’t sure what face he made, exactly, to _that_ information, but it was enough to pitch the dwarf into a hearty chuckle.

 The thing was, Fenris would not put it past her.

 “How about the soldiers? Are you training with them yet?” Varric steered from the topic with all the skill and finesse of a battering ram, and Fenris floundered. He blinked. “Give them much longer, and they’re gonna start getting soft. I could hook you up with Tiny, the guy’s a _beast_ – he’d help you whip them all into shape in no time.”

 “I’m certain the Inquisition will provide help, should I require it.” Fenris countered. Having come to know Varric’s penchant for nicknaming, whoever ‘Tiny’ was, he did not wish to be indebted to the dwarf for any more favors.

 “Fine, fine. Spoilsport.” The dwarf sing-songed, though his tone crowed amusement, rather than real disappointment. “I’m only trying to help, y’know. You’re not that great at making friends.”

 Fenris fixed him with a deadpan stare, and it only earned him another chuckle.

“So,” Varric veered in the conversation, rather obviously only half listening, as his quill skittered across his parchment. “You and Sparkler kiss and make up?”

 Having heard him reference the Tevinter Altus as such before, Fenris didn’t need him to verify who or _what_ a ‘Sparkler’ was. The thought of Dorian, however, brought back foggy snippets of the night before. Careful, hesitant smiles, like Dorian knew something that he didn’t. Wine. _Lots_ of wine. The taste of brandy, second hand from the mage’s mouth. His pulse thrummed just a little more quickly, and the warrior licked his lower lip briefly, absent of thought of it.

 He didn’t know why he’d done it. Given the chance, however, he probably would have done it again. Surer sense overtook him, though, and he had removed himself before letting it go further. He hadn’t expected to even find the Altus _tolerable_ , but…

 There it was.

 Not that Fenris could fathom exactly _why_ it was. Dorian was a man who spoke first and dealt with the consequences afterward – _that_ had come to Fenris after only a few words. He reminded Fenris a little of Anders; plenty of talk, and while he didn’t _seem_ like he had the bite to back it up, when push came to shove…

 He was silent for just a second too long.

 “He was supposed to go see you,” The dwarf stopped his writing, glancing up with furrowed brows. Fenris straightened in his seat. “With a present. I figured you wouldn’t be enjoying the crap they sell at the Rest.”

 Fenris frowned. “The ale is palatable.”

 “ _Enjoying_ , I said.” Varric repeated, lips pulling into his signature wide smirk. Fenris stared at it, and huffed out a breath through his nose.

 “You... Sent him to me?”

 “Yeah, well - no, I sent the Inquisitor to convince him that he was being a bag of dicks. He - wait, he did _apologize_ , right? He wasn’t just an even bigger asshole?”

 Fenris stared, bewildered. “Well -”

 “Shit, he _was,_ wasn’t he? Fucking Sparkler - I told her to just tell him to give you the flaming wine, say sorry, and be done with it-”

 He stumbled over his words, and shook his head, lifting his hands to stop the dwarf’s nattering. With every spewed sentence, the whole thing was only becoming more and more convoluted. Fenris sought to clear the air. “He was... Civil. Polite.” He watched as Varric relaxed in his seat, and while Fenris wasn’t sure why, he felt a pang of something, tightening in his chest. “You told him to ply me with drink?”

 The apologies. The conversation. The _kiss_. If that mage had thought to use him -

 “What? _Broody_ , that hurts. No. Why, did he try to?”

 Fenris glanced down, not meeting Varric’s gaze, and frowned. He turned over the events of the previous night in his head; Dorian had _asked_ of him, but never _forced_. He offered wine, and partook of even more than Fenris had, in the end. He asked questions, he apologized, he blurted – this Dorian Pavus had been _more human_ last night than he had ever seen any Tevinter mage to be. There was real concern, real _fear_ in his eyes when he’d spoken to Fenris of temptations. His laugh, while sprouted from anxiousness, was _genuine_.

 If anything, by Fenris being the one to move in – to invade – and seize him in a kiss, _he_ was the one who had taken advantage.

 And yet, still, he did not doubt that were he to go back and do it over, he would do it again.

 Again, he was silent long enough for the dwarf to come to his own conclusions.

 “Shit,” The dwarf swore softly. Fenris glanced at him again, brows furrowed, and Varric’s dark eyes looked a little betrayed. “I always thought Dorian was better than that.”

 

✵✵✵

 

When Dorian woke, it was to a pounding headache, and far too much light in his room.

 The worst of it was that he remembered _everything_.

 He could still feel the ghost of Fenris’ breath on his face. The texture of his tunic’s fabric against his knuckles. That soft, throaty chuckle of his – tumbling out from between full, well defined lips. His hair askew from absent fingers, those wide eyes on him, something in the depths of them that he could only imagine…

 And imagine he did, grunting under his breath, rolling onto his side while he pulled his hand downward, flitting the sheet that sprawled over him mostly out of the way. While not unfamiliar to him, morning wood had not been something he’d had to deal with since… He exhaled sharply, pushing the thought from his mind. He thought of the elf again, instead, pulling his lower lip between his teeth. The large, grey-violet hands in his mind’s eye became smaller, thinner, though no less battle worn, sprouting white-blue lyrium strands underneath sun kissed skin, pressing, rubbing against his -

“He’s not sorry.” A voice said, and Dorian jumped with a sharp cry, loud in the silence.

 The skin he jumped out of was left on the bed, arm flailing wildly to a place more appropriate, clinging onto the sheet by his head. He swivelled his head as he twisted his body upward, and stared bewilderedly at the boy he found. Cole blinked once, and his head tilted slightly to the right.

 “Not that he did it; not really.” The mage continued to stare, and the spirit remained, cross-legged at the foot of his bed, hands resting on his bare ankles. Half-delirious, Dorian pushed himself up to sit, cradling his throbbing head with one palm while the other pulled at his bedsheets, pooling them over himself in some modicum of modesty. His bare chest remained exposed to the elements, and as bizarrely as ever, Cole neither seemed to know nor care about the social faux-pas of wandering into someone’s bedroom when he had full knowledge that they preferred to sleep in the nude.

 Though not, thankfully, knowledge to the full capacity of _what_ he had just interrupted.

 “ _Sorry?_ ” He managed, his voice still thick with sleep – along with the cottonmouth of a well-earned hangover.

 Cole didn’t answer him. Not in the traditional sense, anyway. “It was bold, and brash, and he didn’t think of the consequences, but he did it anyway. For a second, he wanted to see where it would lead.”

 Dorian paused, the recent memory of an unapologetic smile crawling to the forefront of his mind. The lyrium-lined hands were gone, replaced again, and Bull’s teasing grin was mocking him.

  _‘I picked up some mixed messages; I figured she’d like a turn riding the Bull. Don’t worry so much about it, big guy.’_

A hard lump formed in his throat, and Dorian couldn’t manage to swallow it down. “Cole,” His voice came out more a croak, and he stopped, willing the emotions the thoughts were conjuring back down so he could simply _breathe_. He shivered against the chill of the room, ever-present despite the sun, and lifted a hand to rake it through his hair.

 While he knew Cole always _meant_ well, he certainly did not need to be woken up to the reminder that once again, he’d hoped for too much. “Less paraphrasing - more sense, please.”

 Watery eyes blinked at him from under limp and pale fringe. “The name he has isn’t his. He’s fought for it, he’s become it, and he thinks that maybe it’s changed who he was to start with. He’s still learning.” Dorian frowned, not so sure now that they were both thinking of the same person. “Still learning that he can make decisions for himself, too.”

 Confused, the Altus kept staring at him, a rough noise escaping from the back of his throat. “Who are we talking about?” He interrupted quietly, but Cole wasn’t finished.

 “He wanted to, so he did. He’s free now; he _can_.”

 A pit the size of a nuggalope dropped into Dorian’s stomach. _‘Definitely not Bull.’_ He gathered, but the dawning realization of _whose_ mind Cole was wiggling his little spirit fingers into did not alleviate any of his inner turmoil. “ _Out_ ,” He said suddenly, startling himself as well as the young boy across from him. “Out of his head. He has no doubt had enough of _that_ to last him a lifetime.” Cole inhaled sharply, back straightening, hands retreating to fret in front of his stomach.

 “I – I’m sorry, Dorian. I didn’t mean…”

 “I know,” Dorian offered, and rubbed his palms against his own face. “I know.”

 The spirit fidgeted, his breath shaking. “His hurts are just – they’re so _loud_ , Dorian. He _hates_ because he doesn’t know what else to do with it all. He knows it, too – he can’t help it. He was _made_ to be a weapon. It’s only natural for him to hate because isn’t that what weapons are for?” Dorian was watching him, paralyzed, his breath caught in his throat. He shouldn’t be hearing this. Cole wasn’t _listening_.

 He supposed, though, that Cole could barely help it, either.

 “He’s free, but he still doesn’t know what to do with it. So he takes it, in little bits, when it feels right. It felt _right_.”

 The enlightenment of that information did little to settle his nerves. The mage shut his eyes, exhaling through his nose, and did his best to not beg for the spirit to stop. These thoughts, these things were not _his_ to hear. His weight fell back a little, and it was all Dorian could do to hold himself up against the sudden weight of this ill-gotten information.

 “You’re free, too, Dorian.” The boy put his hands back on his crossed ankles, lanky arms locked at the elbows. “You forget it sometimes – but you are.”

Dorian felt suddenly very, _very_ exhausted. Emotionally. Mentally. Physically. He stared at the spirit-turned-real boy for a long time, and Cole stared right back.

 Just when the mage thought he could take no more, Cole reached up to adjust his hat. “It’s past the sun’s peak,” He stated, as if he hadn’t just laid Dorian’s heart and soul all out in a heap over the bedsheets. “You don’t like sleeping for longer than that. Are you awake?”

 Dorian opened his mouth, and it hung there, stunned, while he formed a response. “....Yes,” He said, after a while. Cole smiled, tentatively, like he hoped he’d done something good. Dorian swallowed, and nodded jaggedly. “Thank you, Cole.”

 The boy’s smile widened, and he lifted his head enough for Dorian to see his eyes. He seemed happy. “You’re... _Welcome_ , Dorian.” He said, and moved to crawl off of the mage’s bed. He left as quietly as he’d come in, and Dorian half-sat, bearing the weight of his whole body on one arm, for a prolonged, overwhelmed silence. He bent his arm, and let his weight fall.

 This whole ordeal would be the end of him.

  _He could feel it._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Totally not going to be much of a beast of a chapter, I said. JUST KIDDING, apparently. 
> 
> That's okay though, this chapter was WAY easier to write. THAT'S A GOOD THING, YEAH? This means things are looking up! Again, THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING, I HOPE YOU ENJOY, HAVE MY MANY LOVES. ❤❤❤❤❤


	8. Truce

 Getting out of bed had not been easy.

 Walking out his door was honestly a milestone for the day.

 It was almost four bells by the time Dorian made his way to the mage’s tower, and he made short work of throwing himself into whatever his mind could at least mostly focus on – which, after Cole’s visit, was honestly not a whole lot. Magic, though, _theories_ – he could lose himself in such things for days.

 Poring over the closest thing to a magic text he could find in the library – one he’d skimmed over before, and found it mostly basic rhetoric, but perhaps there was a gem in here somewhere and seeing as he had limited time to glean every scrap of information from Skyhold before being sent off to his untimely death, anyways - Dorian missed the figure that approached his desk, only breaking his concentration when glass knocked heavily against the wooden surface. He made a small noise and looked up, blinking at the dark bottle, and then upward, sitting up straighter when Fenris came into view. “-Oh.” His breath caught, and he snapped the book shut, setting it down onto the desk.

 “Good morning,” The elf said with a raised brow. Dorian stared at him, and paled, realizing only now that he hadn’t even _bothered_ looking in the mirror before leaving his quarters. He swore softly, and cleared his throat, rubbing his thumbs under his eyes, righting his moustache – though he wasn’t about to wax it with Fenris _right there_ despite keeping a tiny spare canister of it in his desk for emergencies – and combing his fingers through his hair, adjusting the tie that held the longest bit of it back. When he looked up again, Fenris was smirking, apparently amused.

 The Altus inhaled sharply, and tore his eyes away from the elf’s own, turning downward instead and to the proffered bottle still sitting on the table, along with the nimble digits wrapped around the neck of it. He swallowed.

 “I’m glad one of us, at least, can handle themselves appropriately the daylight hours following a bout of over-indulgence.” Dorian said lightly, and went to open his book again. His fingers trembled, and he hid them under the heavy cover as he pulled it back.

 “You must be out of practice,” The warrior returned.

 Dorian managed a small curve of his mouth, his breath rushing out of his nostrils. Leave it to another Tevinter to show him up when it came to consumption. His smile became a little more subdued as Cole’s voice flit through his mind, speaking again of freedom, and his breath hitched. Standing suddenly, Dorian missed Fenris’ surprised look, and the mage stepped around his chair, moving to place the useless tome of basic spell theory he already knew back onto the shelf. The distraction had been an exercise in futility, anyways; especially now, with the cause of most of his current scattered brain standing right in front of him, sending his thoughts somersaulting all over again.

 He wasn’t sure if Fenris noticed, or did it unintentionally – but he closed the space between them as Dorian moved away. Not any closer than he had been when standing on the other side of the mage’s desk, but instead moving to keep a level distance between the both of them. He stepped around the desk, leaning against the ledge of it close enough for his knee to bump against Dorians chair as he relaxed there. Dorian stalled, his fingers still on the spine of the book he’d just wedged back into place amongst the Southern Chantry drivel, and stared at the fraction of space between the elf and where he’d just been sitting. If he moved back into it, would Fenris move away? It seemed likely, but at the same time, with his arms crossed casually over his chest, his clothing a little rumpled and – had he _slept_ in that?

 He glanced up to find Fenris still watching him, caught red-handed in his inspection of the warrior’s clothing, eyes perhaps a little _too_ focused. His lips parted with a sudden breath, and his mind raced to come up with something to say before he embarrassed himself.

 His tongue betrayed him.

 “I suppose we’re _not_ going to talk about last night, then.”

 Fenris’ eyes widened, just slightly, and he huffed out a breath. His jaw clenched, muscle twitching in his cheek, and Dorian couldn’t look anywhere else. It was Fenris who pulled his gaze away, and he made a small, short noise, brows furrowing. “It isn’t necessary.” He said finally, in little more than a mutter. Dorian stared at him, at least a _little_ affronted at that.

 He took a silent, tentative step forward – and Fenris did not move away. Another, and the elf shifted, but remained. Was he even aware that Dorian was wound too tightly, a bow string about to snap? Face impassive, it really didn’t seem like it. Dorian inhaled, and released.

 “You kissed me.” The mage stated, his eyes narrowing. He kept his voice down, and Fenris tensed at the statement, but Dorian hoped he at least appreciated that he wasn’t shouting it.

 “...Yes.” Was all that the elf answered with, and Dorian stared at him. When Fenris wasn’t elaborating, the Altus pinched his lips together and made an exasperated noise. As he did, he thought he saw the elf crack a tiny smile at his frustration. “ _You_ were not required to do more than apologize.” He countered, and the implications of that statement had Dorian straightening up sharply.

 The Altus blinked, and his heart skipped, his mouth flapping a moment before scoffing. “ _I_ was not _required_ to do anything. I _wanted_ to-” He was cut off by a sharp, quiet sound, and found himself half-glaring at the elf, whose mouth was again upturned, the breath of sound he’d just released probably some sort of derisive laugh. When Fenris’ eyes met his own, he was fairly certain the glare softened involuntarily, but he didn’t turn away.

 “Perhaps that makes two of us, then.”

 Again, Dorian was stunned into silence.

 The elf snorted, though his lips remained curled, and he shrugged his shoulders with a quick shake of his head. His hands - bare, unarmored, and for some reason it had Dorian relaxing in a way he didn’t even know he had been tense – waved off the stare he was receiving before reaching slightly behind himself for the wine, setting it a little closer to the middle of the table. Distractedly, if Dorian could successfully read the fidgeting of the warrior’s fingers. “Do not mistake me; between inebriation and sobriety, there is a vast gap between what one _wants_ and what is … _Appropriate_ in regard to one state or the other. I don’t think I’ll be doing it again.”

 “I wouldn’t mind if you _did_.” Dorian countered, and as soon as it was out of his mouth, as soon as Fenris’ surprised eyes met his own, he floundered. He looked away too quickly, feeling heat crawling up his throat, and he cleared it, shifting on his feet.

 Fenris said nothing, and Dorian couldn’t dare to look at him. Instead, he stared at his desk, and the wine, and the hand still absently attached to it.

 “Right,” He said, “Not happening again. Glad we’ve straightened that out.” Head swaying, he stepped around the elf after that, turning his chair slightly toward Fenris and dropping himself back into it. The motion was less than graceful, his elbow bumping against Fenris’ thigh before he jerked it away automatically. The movement happened so fast, he wasn’t even sure if it was he or the elf who had twitched away.

 Perhaps it was both.

 What was that, knotting in his belly? _Disappointment_? Dorian fought the urge to make a disgusted noise at himself, and charged on toward something, _anything_ else to continue their chatter in a less awkward fashion. “And the wine?”

 Fenris sat in careful silence for a second longer before he shrugged, his fingers slipping away from the glass. “A peace offering.”

 Dorian paused at that, and he managed a small smile, pulling his fingers into his palms, spinning the ring that sat around his index finger nervously. The fidgeting was an old habit, and one not lost – the sculpting of the metal had been smoothed over time, Dorian’s thumb knowing every divot that would pull it further. “Of course. And you weren’t possibly put up to this.”

 Again, Fenris shrugged. “I am not as easy to ply into performing a task as some _other men_ I have come to know.” Dorian’s eyes snapped up to catch at Fenris’, the color sharp in the light coming in through the window. Again, he was struck by those eyes, the light catching off his hair, the swirl of lyrium within the man’s skin under his lips -

 He was smirking.

 The void-taken elf was smirking. Dorian stared, inhaled, and made to spew out a half-hearted defense, but it broke off into a more honest, defeated chuckle before he could get a word out, and his eyes dropped back down to his own fidgeting hands. Fenris watched him, something curious crossing his features before his face fell, and the curve of his lips fell away.

 "I hear you had planned to return to Tevinter," He said softly, though somewhat guardedly, crossing his arms.

 Dorian glanced up again, blinking. The sudden question caught him off guard. "I... Might have," he said carefully, eyeing the elf curiously. Was Fenris giving him an opening? His fingers twitched, and he laced his hands together instead, lifting his elbows to prop them on the arms of the chair. His elbow pressed against Fenris’ thigh, but while the elf levelled him with a solid stare, he did not move away again. “And what’s stemmed this sudden interest?”

 “I was simply wondering _why_.” Fenris said by way of answering, his arms tightening against his chest. Dorian felt his brows lift, and Fenris, seeming to take note of his own closed off stance, lowered his arms. His hands flit awkwardly a moment before settling on either side of his hips with his palms flush against the edge, fingers gripping at the grainy underside of the wooden table. Dorian watched the whole sequence of motion, trying to calculate the meaning of the question. It sounded… Simply, honestly curious. A method of conversation, to just ask something to prattle away about, to pass the time. A question where the answer was not already known.

 It was not a question for a man who knew they would be swooping off to their homeland in the night in a matter of days. Maybe days? Leliana had never told him _when_. And now, more than ever, he began to doubt the _who_.

 When Dorian didn’t answer, Fenris didn’t press. They sat in silence for a short while before Dorian was sighing and pushing himself from his chair. The warrior turned to look at him, and the mage exhaled with a smile, reaching for the wine, meeting Fenris’ eye. “Walk with me?”

 Fenris narrowed his eyes, and glanced down at the bottle as Dorian held it loosely in one hand. Dorian waited, and eventually, Fenris pushed his weight off the table, gesturing for the mage to lead the way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I ended up splitting this into two chapters. I figured pushing over 4k words (iiiit might get split again, at this rate) in a single chapter would have been a little much to swallow, but THIS DOES MEAN that the next two chapters should be coming shortly! :) I keep getting distracted by further scenes down the line and a plethora of other fics that are sitting in my folders keep calling out to me, so I'm sorry for the wait! (B-but also not sorry because I cannot wait to share those other stories with everyone, too? THIS IS HARD. I WANT EVERYONE TO SEE ALL THE THINGS)
> 
> Thank you for reading, comments, crits, theories are all appreciated! I LOVE RESPONDING TO EVERYTHING. heartheart.
> 
> Alright I'll rush off to finish the other chapter(s) now.


	9. Ego Somnium

Dorian led the way past the dutiful tranquil, into the stairwell that lead downward. Too much conversation in the library, between the studying mages and the eavesdropping scouts on the floor above it, was dangerous at the best of times. He hadn’t minded speaking with the Inquisitor, and loudly; whatever she knew, he was never afraid to let the rest of Skyhold know as well.

 Speaking with Fenris, however… Something was … Different.

 For some reason, he didn’t _want_ all of Skyhold to know what he might tell him.

 It wasn’t that he planned on lying. Or making anything he’d ever said before out to be a lie. It was only for how the simple exchange of words could be twisted, especially with the implied circumstances in which Dorian would be leaving. What would it look like, to those who would think that he might actually harm Alexius before running off to the Venatori? That he would try and convince the slave that got away that Tevinter wasn’t all that bad? If Fenris turned out to be the one to return with him, wouldn’t it only be worse?

  _Tevinter propaganda_ , they might say _. Blood Magic. Mind Control._ Mother Giselle would have another reason to run her mouth and attack him when he did nothing to deserve it, thinking she was in the right.

 Not that anyone had ever deigned to tell her she had ever been in the wrong while doing so.

 Not even the Inquisitor; ever the peacekeeper. Despite following the Creators of the Elvhen people, the Inquisitor had elected to build an Andrastian Chapel in the yard, rather than a garden that she might put her own idols into. She had done everything she had the power to do to keep everyone as comfortable as possible. It just so happened that Dorian did not quite fall into the category of ‘everyone’.

 This had been fine, mostly. Dorian had never been unused to the concept of being a pariah. Skyhold had never been so different from Tevinter in that respect.

 He’d never made the comparison out loud, of course, even if the resulting blowout would have been _something_ to see. He’d never understood why the Southern peoples hated Tevinter so. There were the Exalted Marches, that the South started, and the rise of Andraste’s rebellion, which the South also started… Well, there had been the whole taking over bit in the first place, he supposed.

 Despite its faults, Dorian had few things truly horrible to say about the country he came from. It was the people who lived in it that were the problem. Fenris had seen the worst of those people - he knew that the problem didn’t lie in the country itself, surely.

  _Surely._

He glanced back, as if Fenris might have disappeared back up the stairwell, retreated when he wasn’t looking, and exhaled in guilty relief to find the warrior behind him, his half-bare feet silent upon the stone. At their stopping, Fenris lifted his brows, and Dorian made a small, guilty noise before continuing on. He had half a mind to answer Fenris’ question on the way down, but that would have also defeated the purpose of moving farther away from the library. He didn’t doubt that the aerie was strategically placed, and that most noise in the stairwell itself would waft right up to the Spymaster’s door.

 They reached the lowest floor of the tower, level with the main hall. Just to be safe, in case his theory had any merit, Dorian shut the door behind them as they came into what was once Solas’ retreat. Fenris had made it only a few steps past Dorian before stopping, taking in the painting plastered all around the walls.

 The mage stood back, glancing at the mural across from him, half-draped in heavy canvas. When it was found that Solas had apparently abandoned them after dealing with Corypheus, Lavellan had ordered some of the murals she found ‘more disturbing’ to be covered back up. While he found the raw beauty in Solas’ artwork, he would be lying if he didn’t admit that some of it _had_ been a little unsettling. Eyes in the sky, dark wolves at every turn… One had to wonder _what_ the elf saw in his fade dreams, to come up with that.

 Solas had always said they ran true to events. Dorian did not remember the breach having eyes, nor the presence of so many hounds, dogging their steps.

 Well - plenty of wolves, a few trained mabari, but none so prominent or difficult to handle as to be featured in the murals.

 He turned to Fenris, who had his eyes upon the walls, studying the fresco. The wolves seemed to draw his eye, and when he made a thoughtful noise, stepping to the closest canvas and peering under it, Dorian waited.

 “The Inquisition has some talented craftsmen to her name,” Fenris offered, once he’d had his fill. Dorian smiled, and moved to one of the stacks of crates lining the walls, some half-packed with various things the strange mage had collected, many of the still empty ones upturned as impromptu seats. Dorian was not the only one in Skyhold to appreciate Solas’ work. He sat, adjusting the length of his half coat to pull less awkwardly at his shoulder. He imagined this could either be a lengthy, diplomatic conversation, or quickly turn into a heated debate; he may as well be comfortable.

 “Had,” He said with a small shrug. “Solas left in a hurry a little while back. Not that I can entirely blame him - he is still an apostate, smack in the middle of two countries who would still imprison him for it if they could; no matter what state their Circles are in.”

 Some found the disappearance a foundation of distrust in the man; Dorian saw a mage who valued his own freedom. He would not fault him for that.

 Fenris looked thoughtful, brows furling closer together, before he made a low, careful statement. “They would do the same to you – you are a mage, and no citizen of either Orlais or Ferelden.”

 With a bitter smile, Dorian sat forward and gave him a nod. “How astute.” He teased, and hung the unopened wine between his knees, tapping his rings rhythmically against the glass. “Here in Skyhold, I am under protection. In Orlais or Ferelden, currently, if either country lays a hand on me, they deal with the Inquisition.”

 “…Currently?” Fenris asked, his eyes narrowing in slight confusion. Dorian’s bitter smile grew, and a dark weight settled in his stomach.

 “Nothing lasts forever, does it.” While phrased as a question, Dorian let the end hang, not really wanting to hear an answer. His jaw tensed, and his smile turned into a sneer before falling completely from his features. “But you asked me a question – it’s only polite to answer that, first.”

 Fenris frowned, and Dorian waved it off.

 “It’s not important. _Tevinter_ , though. _That’s_ important.” He pushed, and the elf settled back onto the balls of his feet, but remained where he was. His gaze was a little sharper, piqued perhaps with sudden curiosity at Dorian’s sudden refusal to elaborate on his more recent question. Dorian ignored it, and hoped he could distract him. “While gearing up for Corypheus, I had many a machination to upend my country as it is now – day by day, we destroy ourselves, and the cities themselves fall apart around us.” He started, and felt that now familiar flutter in his chest. “The Imperium was, is, in the end always _will_ be my home. I cannot let it fall to ruin, but I cannot stand by and watch while my countrymen try to imitate the past. While perhaps a _success_ , once, the Imperium of old has no place in Thedas as it is now. The world has changed, and we have remained much the same, slowly crumbling away like our brilliant cities.”

 He glanced up to find Fenris standing, watching him with a softly furrowed brow. Curious, but reserved. Distracted by the topic at hand, instead of by why he would soon no longer be welcome. Dorian swallowed, inhaled, and went on.

 “It – it’s been a longstanding idea of mine, to help assert change in the Imperium. Inch by inch, mind you, I hadn’t expected to turn it upside down using the power at my disposal alone. Just enough to get the ball rolling.”

 “You’d never do it on your own.”

 Fenris’ voice was severe. It wasn’t the first time he’d heard the phrase, friendlier or otherwise. He breathed out in a puff of a laugh. “That goes without saying. I wouldn’t be alone. I… There are actually a _good number_ of mages in the Imperium that are saddened, sickened, or simply tired of what we have become. I’ve _heard_ Orlesians talk about us, when they do not think that I am listening. We’ve become a laughing stock. A relic, too outdated to be useful, a barking dog who will not simply lie down and die. They think we run on blood magic - that without it, we are nothing.”

 He felt a fire ignite inside his chest as he began to unravel. It was the same spark that would always ignite, the passion he felt speaking of his hopes for his country and countrymen, beginning to burn away some of the dark feelings that had taken hold over the last couple of days.

 “There are those of us who know we are _more_ than that. We are a new age; restoring Tevinter to its _former_ glory is as childish and useless a dream as entering the Golden City had been millennia ago – and look at where _that_ got us: Blamed for every bad thing to ever happen on Thedas forevermore. We hold the Qunari at bay from wiping over the coasts, and even _that_ grants us no reprieve from how the rest of Thedas views us. We need to make our mark, and it isn’t by reverting to the Imperium _before_. Our redemption doesn’t lie in the past or in old glories. It’s in the present, _now,_ and what we do from this point forward that will shape the Tevinter that we need to become.”

 When he finally realized he was about to tip over the precipice into preaching, Dorian looked up again, and Fenris was openly staring at him. His dark brows were pinched closer together, and those green eyes were … _Intense_. He couldn’t pinpoint exactly what emotion was on the elf’s face, but the warrior said nothing. It didn’t seem as though he was biting back a retort; it seemed more like he _had_ none.

 The lack of witty remark had Dorian pausing in his own tirade, and his lungs expelled his breath in a long rush, hesitant to pick up where he’d left off. Had he said too much? Was the line officially tread over, and Fenris was reigning in his anger, or perhaps just waiting for an opportunity to strike? It was fairly obvious by all regard that he held no love for the place; waxing on about it as Dorian tended to, as he _just had been_ , would not be received lightly.

 And yet, the warrior had yet to move.

 The silence sat heavy between them, and instead of breaking it again, Dorian clenched his jaw, turning his attention to the bottle in his hands.

 Probably, if Fenris had poisoned this _peace offering_ , he was simply waiting for Dorian to partake. It would make everyone’s lives a whole lot easier – his own, especially – if he just shut up and got it over with. Sighing, he worked the cork out of the bottleneck, and took a drink without further hesitation.

 No sudden sharp pains. No foaming at the mouth. Not particularly robust, though.

 The wine was no more bitter than Cabot’s regular stock, and while it wasn’t an Aggregio, it would do. He took another, longer drink, and then held it out to the elf.

 Fenris, still distractedly silent, took a moment to realize that he was being offered the bottle. He blinked once before stepping closer to Dorian, having been closer to the center of the room when Dorian had started going off. He stopped within arm’s reach, taking the wine and tipping it toward his own mouth slowly. The drink he took was a long one, and from Dorian’s experience, it was the kind of drink one took when coming to terms with, or at least mulling over, something one hadn’t given much thought to before. The glass broke from his lips with a sharp breath, and Fenris licked his lip absently as he lowered his hand.

 The silence was becoming suffocating.

 Dorian stared while Fenris frowned, a muscle in his cheek twitching once, twice. While passing the liquor back, he finally spoke.

 “What would you see changed?”

 Dorian dropped his gaze to Fenris’ fingers; the lyrium marked into his skin, perhaps voluntary at the time though the procedure was probably still stepping over the line. His fingers halted halfway to the wine, and he retreated, sitting up a little straighter. Fenris watched him curiously, and shrugged, leaning back on the ball of his other foot and taking another drink. “Everything, I suppose.”

 At that, a sharp laugh echoed around the chamber. Dorian hoped it would not echo upward. “Everything,” Fenris parroted, his voice a volume far more reasonable than his laugh had been, though his words seeped sarcasm. “Well, that should be simple.”

 The Altus shot him a wry smile, he lifted a hand, brushing longer strands of dark hair from his face, trying to weave them into each other above his brow. “Nothing’s ever simple,” He agreed, and cast his gaze toward the floor. His eyes fell on Fenris’ toes, and stayed there. “A few bills of reform first, I’d think. Pushed through the Magisterium, and we hope the Archon lets it pass through undisturbed. Bit by bit, piece by piece, until the Tevinter moving forward is no longer the one we wish to leave behind.”

 “And who are ‘ _we_ ’?” Fenris frowned, the curious gleam still in his eye. If Dorian didn’t know better – and he _thought_ he did, he might think that Fenris was truly interested.

 The Altus leaned back against the wall, and began fidgeting again with his rings. “A few good Magisters, at least a dozen from the Altus classes, some from traditional Houses, while others are a few generations now into being progressive… _Masses_ oflaetans and praeteri…There’s too many to name off the top of my head – and I doubt you would know many, judging by the circles your m- _Danarius_ ran in.” He corrected himself quickly, spurred both by the sharp look he received and his own foot colliding with his teeth.

 Metaphorically, thankfully.

 Fenris narrowed his eyes all the same. Dorian sat, caught again in conversational limbo, finding himself grasping at straws.

 “ _Good_ Magisters,” Fenris echoed suddenly, puffing out in disbelief. “ _Progressive Houses._ ” While dry, at least he found the humor in the phrasing. The elf stood, considering, and tipped the wine toward his lips again. “…I never did see much of that side of Tevinter,” Fenris said thoughtfully, his gaze far away. He furrowed his brow, and clenched his jaw. “Though I do not believe you will be very successful.”

 Fenris offered the wine again, and Dorian took the bottle, but did not drink, distracted. “And do you really care about the outcome of my attempt? You despise the place.”

 “I…” Fenris trailed off, frowning, and released a long breath before reaching for the untouched wine. Dorian let him take it, his gaze even and inquisitive. The elf glanced away, pursed his lips as he swallowed, and then licked them, unmindful of Dorian’s watchful eye. “My feelings on Tevinter are… Complicated.” He allowed, and Dorian felt his brow furrowing, his mind going a million places at once.

 The admittance would have been easier if Fenris had confessed to hating it.

 The elf stepped closer after a pause, swinging the wine absently at his side. He gestured to the mage with the bottle, flicking it sideways, and Dorian blinked, shuffling slowly over on the crate. Once room was made, Fenris exhaled heavily, and sat. This time, when the bottle was offered, Dorian took it, and drank. “I would much like to hear news of Tevinter burning to the ground or falling to pieces. And yet…” He trailed off, frowning and looking forward instead of at the mage. One hand flexed absently, and Dorian was distracted by the motion, his sight falling again to the curious lines mapping Fenris’ fingers. “While reform may be possible – and any change may be for the better, but the mages clinging to the old ways will fight tooth and nail - but I find little redeemable in all that the Imperium stands for.”

 Another drink and the wine began to loosen the mage’s tongue. He swirled the bottle, examining the remaining quarter of it. “That’s the point,” He said. “If we can exert change – _enough_ change,” Dorian corrected, “Then perhaps Tevinter can stand for something _better_.”

 There was a pointed silence. “…You are naïve,” Fenris said shortly, and Dorian laughed.

 “So I’ve been told,” He found enough humor to smile, and did so. He cast Fenris a sideways glance. “And you are more reasonable than Varric’s book makes you out to be.”

 Fenris lifted his brows, and then smirked. “-It’s been said.” He laughed, softly, and Dorian found his smile warming. The bottle was light in Dorian’s hand; there wasn’t much left. He tipped the remainder toward the elf, who took it with a small noise, draining the last of the contents. Dorian watched the bob of his throat as he did, his eyes following the fishbones of Fenris’ tattoos, winding their way down to his shirt collar.

 Fenris cleared his throat quietly, and Dorian sat up suddenly straighter, slapping his palms to his knees. “ _-Well_ ,” He burst out, entirely not sure where to go from there. It was difficult to feign being lost in thought when no proper thought had really been occurring –

  _Ah._

“So, that’s why I planned to return.” He fumbled, his heart picking up in pace. Perhaps now – now that Fenris knew what he planned, what he _truly_ wanted out of his return, he’d be a little more upfront. “We’ll see to a new Tevinter, shall we?” He said, his smile whittling its way back onto his lips. Fenris lowered the bottle, the empty glass clinking against the side of the crate. He looked pensive.

 “ _You_ will.” Fenris said carefully, brows furrowing. Dorian released a strangled, desperate breath.

 “…Right.” He breathed, and gripped at the leather wrapped over his knees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Apparently I'm just going to keep throwing 3k+ word chapters at you guys. I hope you don't mind. I still did have to split off into the third chapter, though. The never ending conversationnnnnnn..... At least the scenery changes! Whoo!
> 
> As always, thank you for reading with me this far! Comments, kudos, crits, I AM UP FOR ANYTHING. I hope you're enjoying Red thus far!


	10. Ergo Bibamus

Was that it?

 That had to have been it.

 The ‘opening’ Dorian thought Fenris had given him had not been one at all.

 “…Right,” He said again, more softly, more to himself than the man beside him.

 Dorian’s mood sobered in less time than it took for him to loosen his fingers from his knees, and with a clenched jaw, he stood to take his leave. He straightened his clothes, smoothed his hair and moustache, and sighed, collecting his wits. What had he been hoping for? Fenris was an unlikely candidate from the start to go along with Leliana’s plan – and yet, Dorian had hoped…

 But it was not him, and no one else had come, still, as far as he knew. He would be on his own.

 While a day ago he might have been devastated at the concept, now, with the fire still gleaming in his chest from his talk of reform… Leliana be damned; he was Dorian Pavus. If anyone could do this alone, it _would_ be him, and he was going to _succeed_.

 He simply had to get away. To think. To plan. To…

 His fingers twitched and flexed, ending up in loose fists at his sides. He turned to say his goodbyes, and Fenris looked up at him, his expression curious but also a little wary. The elf glanced toward the stairs, the door, back again, and Dorian gave pause, taking in the state of Fenris’ clothing a second time. The elf looked away again, muscles jumping in his cheeks, and rolled the empty bottle absently between his hands while the mage bit the inside of his cheek. “Fenris,” He started, his resolve faltering, and again, Dorian didn’t _want_ to think and plan and dream of all of the ways he was going to die on his way north or shortly thereafter. Wasting a little more time instead just sounded so much more _appealing_. “…How are you faring with finding your way around?”

 The warrior tensed, and Dorian had his answer.

 “Fine,” Fenris bristled, and set the bottle onto the floor more heavily than really necessary. The sound of glass knocking against stone echoed quietly in the round chamber. Dorian narrowed his eyes after making a tiny noise. Fenris clenched his jaw, and moved suddenly to stand, stepping forward and away, adjusting his armor. Dorian’s eyes stayed on him, narrowing just a little further when the elf glanced back, and Fenris hissed out a curse. “ _What_.”

 “You lost your way last night, didn’t you?” Dorian’s mouth twitched, and the warrior bristled. The mage had to stifle a chuckle at the sight, but the breath that escaped him still earned him a glare that didn’t truly hold any vehemence. “I’m not making fun,” He offered quickly, - even if perhaps he was making a _little_ fun, it was all in good sport - tilting his head. “Maker knows I wound up in the Undercroft far too often for my own good when we first arrived here. Not sure who built the place, but they were a piss-poor architect – or, a very paranoid one.”

 The elf continued to hunch his shoulders for another long moment, and then grumbled something out under his breath. He turned to face the mage again, and Dorian lifted his brows, ever patient.

 “I… May have.” The warrior ground out, and again, Dorian had to stifle a noise. Fenris clenched his jaw, but chose to ignore it. “Varric drew a map,” He admitted, his face souring, and he dug into a satchel at his hip. He produced a crumpled, ill-loved piece of parchment, unravelling it to reveal a wrinkled, crudely scrawled map. Dorian stepped closer to investigate.

 The thing was _illegible_. Winding spirals that were – supposed to be stairs? What was that, a lion’s head? A mabari? _Blackwall_?

 “-Ugh, his cartography is worse than his prose. I didn’t think it could _get_ worse.”

 Fenris laughed, softly and suddenly, and the sound of it lightened Dorian’s mood considerably. “It’s a shitty map,” He amended, and the curve of his lip as he looked down at it in Dorian’s hands was almost fond.

 “How did you even _find_ the mage’s tower with this?” Dorian wondered aloud, turning the parchment over in his hands. Maybe if he squinted…

 Fenris paused, and shuffled on his feet. “…I asked.”

 The mage glanced up quickly, and Fenris turned his eyes away with a small noise from his throat. Staring, Dorian opened his mouth, shut it again, and stared some more. Fenris had actually, truly sought him out with the intention to – what, apologize? Start a fight? Have another drink? It made sense, but when Fenris had found him earlier, he wouldn’t have believed it. “I’ll take you.” Dorian offered, and licked his lips at the sudden glance. “-Show you the way, I mean. To your quarters. Navigating this damned keep can be an absolute nightmare at the best of times. It’ll take some getting used to, but being shown where it is might help – assuming _I_ can read this map.” He laughed quietly, flipping it again and mumbling under his breath.

 Another distraction.

 Procrastinating had always been something of a strong suit for Dorian, and yet, when Fenris continued looking at him, a curious tilt to his brow, the mage caught his lips pulling into a very slight smile. He waited, hanging on to the crude map, and eventually the elf relaxed his shoulders, and gave him a nod. “That… Would be appreciated.” He said, the gravel tone of his voice making the gratitude sound harsher than he’d probably meant it, but Dorian’s smile widened all the same.

 

✵✵✵

 

“I think it’s.. .A left here – _ah_ , here we are. Down leads to a storage cellar, so Varric must mean… Up.”

 Dorian still had the paper in his hand. They hadn’t gotten lost so far, but the thing was truly horrendous to try and follow. As he began the ascent, he turned, and Fenris seemed to be fighting words. They had fallen back into disjointed banter between long silences, with Fenris having few questions and Dorian having too much to say at once. The topic of reform had come up at least another four times, and each time it did, Fenris seemed more and more like a wound coil, ready to spring.

 Dorian braced himself, and opened his mouth.

 “Shut up.” Fenris said suddenly, and Dorian sputtered to a halt. He stared, and Fenris shook his head. “ I can’t – no more of your revolution.”

 The mage opened his mouth, and formed a dozen sentences before finally choosing one. “I would think that you, for one, would appreciate –“

 Dorian half-yelped when his shoulders were grabbed and the warrior spun him into the wall. His balance on one step in the winding staircase was precarious, and he grabbed at Fenris instead of trying to find the lower step, wide-eyed when he met Fenris’ even stare. The elf was scowling, but seemed more frustrated with himself than anything else. Dorian’s shoulders were knocked back against the stone again, though almost gently, and green eyes narrowed. “ _Quiet_ , I said. No more of how you would right the world.” Fenris exhaled, and Dorian’s fingers held a little tighter to his elbow. “It makes me want to kiss you.” The warrior muttered, and Dorian’s entire body tensed, rigid in the elf’s hold. Exhaling shakily, the Altus licked his lips, and froze up to see Fenris’ eyes catch the motion.

  _‘Get a hold of yourself.’_ His mind reeled.

 “A-ah, but you’re drunk again,” He laughed, and Fenris was too close, _too close-_ Dorian’s hands flew up to catch at Fenris’ wrists instead, still pinning his shoulders, and the elf blinked, pulling his gaze from Dorian’s mouth to frown. Was he drunk? Perhaps – Dorian was feeling the wine, even if it was not nearly as potent as the night before. Then again, he hadn’t had any of that Maker-forsaken brandy this time. “For both of our sakes, perhaps not.”

 Green eyes narrowed, and Dorian held his breath when Fenris did not immediately pull away. The elf inhaled, made a low noise from the back of his throat, and his gaze lingered on Dorian’s mouth a moment longer before he let go and stepped back, gesturing up the stairs for Dorian to continue up. The mage took a second to unfreeze himself, and stepped past the warrior to continue upward. They were lead into a long corridor, lined with doors on either side, and Dorian looked again to the map. His hand trembled, and he hoped Fenris didn’t notice, but surged into motion anyways when the elf paused beside him. “Fourth door on the right, I think. As far as a number four and an arrow pointing right would lead us, anyway-“

 He stopped in front of said door, Fenris following in practiced silence behind, and tried the latch. It gave with a click, the sound loud in the quiet hall. Once the door was open, and the room was apparently furnished and livable, Dorian swallowed and took a few steps back. Fenris came up beside him and pushed his way further in, looking around before offering a grunt of acceptance and turning his body toward the mage. “This looks correct,” He offered, the corners of his mouth tilting upward with a nod. “My thanks, mage.”

 “Don’t mention it.” Dorian smiled, “As in, no, really. I have a reputation to uphold. Evil Magister, and all that.” When Fenris’ eyes widened just slightly before he chuckled, short and surprised, Dorian’s smile drew wider.

 “If they think you an evil Magister,” Fenris breathed, his shoulders dropping slightly as he leaned on the heavy door. “Then they have not met many Tevinter Magisters.”

 It was Dorian’s turn to chuckle. “Not many, I suspect, no.” He offered, and again, Fenris’ mouth quirked into the semblance of a smile. They stood, somewhat awkwardly, with Dorian hovering a few paces away from the doorway, and Fenris hesitating just within it, neither quite wanting to escape just yet. Dorian swallowed, and Fenris grasped at the door a little more tightly, looking as though he was attempting to put a phrase together in his head. The mage rocked on his heels, and inhaled, giving in to the looming need for parting. “I suppose I should –“

 “-Come in?” The warrior interrupted, and Dorian tripped over his own words. He let his weight fall back onto the flats of his feet, swaying slightly, and stared for what must have been longer than really necessary. “Well?” Fenris pressed after waiting long enough. Those dark brows peaked high on the elf’s forehead, and Dorian’s mouth slackened a little in confusion. Fenris tapped his heel jaggedly against the stone floor, either nervous or out of patience.

 “Wh-huh?” Was the smart response that came out of Dorian’s mouth, and he grimaced at himself. Words tumbled out of his mouth. “That is, I - rather - what are you asking.”

 The look he received made Dorian feel like he was fifteen and fumbling all over again, and he stared back helplessly. Shaking his head, Fenris stepped further behind the door, leaving a wider space for Dorian to enter. “I’m closing this door,” He started, laying the situation out in the simplest terms possible. “You, _mage,_ decide which side of it that you are going to be on.”

 Dorian stared, and Fenris held his eyes.

 “ _Now_.”

 Dorian’s feet were moving of reflexively at the command, and when the door closed, the wood was to his back. The state of the room was what he found himself taking in first – while decorated marginally, there was still a hole in one wall, and vermin skittered in the rafters above them, away from their sudden intrusion. It was a far cry from the quarters the inner circle had been granted, and made Dorian realize again just _how many_ restorations still needed to be made. The linens looked to be fresh, though, incense was smoking lazily in a censer by the door – probably to cover the smell of mildew and rodent, unfortunately – and the fallen rock had at least been stacked neatly under where it might need to be replaced.

 Or gutted.

 Fenris came up to his side, and exhaled without comment at the hole that looked out to wide open sky, the side of a mountain disappearing behind the stone. Apparently content, he unbuckled the strappings of the sword slung over his back, and dropped it haphazardly on the floor. His gauntlets followed, pulled out from being crammed underneath his belt. Dorian, catching himself, glanced away and out into that sky; it may be the mountains, always getting too dark too early, but – was the sky going dim? How long had they been speaking, winding through the lower halls?

 His eyes wandered again, and fell on a stack of crates in the corner of the room. He recognized the label that had been adhered to the side of it easily enough.

 “That’s… A _lot_ of wine.” Dorian stared at a label while Fenris undid his belt, dropping it and the satchels it carried to the floor. Dorian _may_ have been adamantly looking anywhere else. The elf regarded the pile of crates in the corner, and shrugged.

 “The dwarf did not want them.”

 Dorian blinked, and then gave a surprised little laugh. There was a doubt, but he was fairly certain that Fenris _did not_ mean Cabot. “Oh? So I’m getting Varric’s leftovers, am I?” He crossed his arms, huffing out through his nose, and Fenris frowned, missing the joke entirely. “And here I thought you really couldn’t find your way. _Conniving,_ exploiting my helpful nature.”

 “Varric had them moved.” Fenris cut in with a bit of a scowl, obviously not enjoying being picked on. Dorian pinched his mouth shut, realizing that the fun-poking was not getting through. He moved past Dorian, and further into the room, towards the crates. “If you wished to leave, instead –“

 “No,” Dorian said, maybe a little too quickly. He inhaled shakily, and his lips spread into a small smile. “No, that’s… I could certainly do with the distraction.”

 The warrior huffed, retrieving a bottle from within the crate. He seemed to pause, then, with another bottle in his hand, turning the glass over and over again. “You don’t think you’ve had enough since last night?”

 “ _Not nearly._ ” The Altus responded in a breath, and swallowed. “You think I’m a lush.” His tone was accusatory, though he didn’t feel the offense his voice portrayed.

 Really, it was too close to the truth for Dorian to _be_ offended.

 Fenris snorted, though the sound was amicable. He stepped closer, and extended the bottle toward the mage. “It would take one to know one.” Dorian caught his eyes, losing himself in the golden glint of them in the low light for a moment before smiling, and taking the wine. He licked his lip, and then bit it in an attempt to stifle the sudden snort that escaped. His pulse thrummed at the glint of Fenris’ own teeth in response to the sound.

 “That does _not_ make it any better,” He said, once again relying on his rings to assist in prying the cork to a more reasonable position to wrench it from the neck. Fenris chuckled again, and Dorian swallowed at the sound.

 They drank.

 Dorian did all he could to push the impending doom from his mind. He fell into witty remarks, feigning offense at Fenris’ own shot back at him, and with every laugh he wrestled out of the elf, his chest felt lighter. The sun had dipped below the peaks of the mountains, and the sky grew quickly dimmer, and yet, Dorian did not want to leave. With every bottle, it was becoming easier to throw his responsibilities to the wayside. There was Fenris, _encouraging_ him, and the thought had crossed his mind that after the next bottle, he’d kiss him for it. Travelling companion or not.

 The next bottle never came, Fenris replacing the lid of the crate with a rugged, contented noise. Dorian bemoaned the cut-off, though it was with a laugh that was more giddily-drunken than he had intended. Fenris only smiled at him, his eyes half-lidded, and sat on the crate.

  _“Tyrant,_ ” Dorian mumbled, shrugging and setting the emptied bottle with its brethren. Had they gone through two? Three? Did they bring the bottle with them from the library? This… Was getting to be a problem. With the prospect of heading home to play nice with Venatori _alone_ hanging over his head, though, he licked the taste of wine from his lips, and craved more of it.

 He’d very much like to drink until everything went black.

 “I think we’ve _both_ had enough,” Fenris slurred slightly, looking amused. Dorian realized he had blown his cheeks out in the indignity at being told he could have no more, and really could not argue with the elf’s statement. He sucked his cheeks back in quickly, skin heating, and Fenris’ distracted smile spread into more of a grin.

 Dorian found himself sighing wistfully at the sight, and his heart froze in his chest at the realization. “I – I should… I should probably be going,” He rushed out, swallowing, his throat suddenly dry. When he stood, Fenris mirrored the motion, and the mage felt his heart leap into a quicker pace. “Thank you, Fenris.”

 The elf did not answer in words, but he did make a small noise while smoothing the tight material of his leggings, rolling his shoulders as he straightened up. Dorian caught himself watching the motion, his mouth having gone dry, and exhaled sharply, heading for the door. He got as far as grasping at the latch before that gravel tone, closer than he thought it would be, sounded just behind him. “-Wait,”

 The mage turned his head. A hand on his shoulder turned him further, and Dorian inhaled as Fenris closed the space between them, leaning in probably more closely than was appropriate. Dorian had no way of telling if the elf just had problems with space when he’d overindulged, or if a re-enactment of the night before was about to occur, but… Really, he’d be alright with either of those things.

 “When will you leave?” Fenris asked, and the tone with which he did had Dorian’s mouth flapping, his heart leaping into his throat.

 “I – I’m not sure,” He said honestly, eyes wide, and Fenris made a small, thoughtful sound. The warrior nodded, and Dorian’s shoulders relaxed, thinking him to be retreating.

 He was certainly not expecting for Fenris to move closer instead, both hands lifting over Dorian’s shoulder to press into the wall behind him. He leaned in, closer than perhaps he’d meant to when their chests collided just briefly, and the mage sucked in a breath. They locked eyes, and Dorian could barely handle the color of them in this light; could barely handle the heat coming off of his body, trapped as he was between Fenris’ wrists.

 He wanted to remain.

 “I’m sure that I’ve never felt love for Tevinter.” Fenris said, brows furrowed, gaze boring into Dorian, who remained rooted to the spot. The elf lowered a hand, instead, brushing stray strands of hair from the mage’s forehead, and when he licked his lips, Dorian’s stomach jumped. “And yet... Somehow. You are causing me to miss it.”

 “That’s homesickness, for you.” He tried, his heart still lodged in his throat. The laugh that escaped him was higher in pitch than he’d like to admit.

 “No,” The slurred word was sharp, instinctual. “That place... Was _never_ my home.”

 Dorian’s breath caught. His hand slid, imperceptibly to him, from the latch on the door. “If that’s the case, what would be there for you to miss?”

 Fenris stared at him. Hard. Exhaling roughly, Dorian made out a “You talk too much,” before the other man was seizing his jaw and pressing forward, silencing the mage with his own mouth. His grip was firm, and Dorian’s hands hung in the air to the warrior’s sides for half a second before clutching at Fenris’ tunic, the fabric bunching under his fingers.

 Fenris’ mouth was warm, eager against his own, and the Altus made a small noise, tilting his head into it without thinking – the warmth, the smell of the elf was intoxicating. Caught somewhere between clove, spicy and crackling open within a fire, and ozone, the tang of electricity on his tongue. Dorian wanted _more_ , and drank his fill, Fenris’ fingers sliding from his jaw and tangling into the tied hair behind his skull.

 When they broke apart, Dorian stuttered in a short breath, and Fenris made a small noise, his eyes half-lidded. The mage could smell the wine on his breath; could still feel the effects of all that he had consumed himself.

  _This was a bad idea._

 Instead of stating so, instead of turning tail and running… He tipped his head forward, and their lips met again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Another hefty chapter! Hope nobody minds. Getting to the good stuff now. P:
> 
> AAAHHHHHHH I'M SO SORRY FOR THE WAIT. I AM A WOOOORRRRMMMMMM. I hope you enjoy!


	11. Lapse*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (( *Pummels Latin grammar into a fine paste* I apologize in advance. If anyone more knowledgeable has better ways to phrase anything I write in Tevene/Latin/random bastardizations of the two, please do let me know! Otherwise, let’s just call it creative license because a lot of Tevene pulls from Latin but very brokenly and then other shit comes out of left field- I’ll stop.
> 
> Also, for reference, all the smutty literature will be marked with a * in the chapter title! Oh hey look, it’s in this chapter’s title! WHAT A COINCEDENCE.))

Judgement had given way to lips. Reason to breath. Thought to tongue.

 The kiss was all-consuming, to Dorian’s compromised thought processes. Fenris’ tongue was in his mouth, almost aggressive in its exploration, and Dorian opened himself to it willingly. He had been pushed back, his body up against the cold stone beside the door, and the hands he’d put on Fenris’ sides had wandered, grasping at his lower back. This time, Fenris was not attacking him for it.

 Granted, the teeth on his lips could be considered an attack, if a pleasant one.

 They were drunk, they knew better, but Fenris’ mouth was warm and eager and his hands – _Maker_ , his _hands_ – were exploring, one wrapping calloused fingers around the base of his neck while the other slid down his bare arm, nails leaving a trail of sharpened sensation along their way before being interrupted by his sleeve.

 The attentions were lovely, and the mage sighed out his appreciation when their lips came apart, unable to restrain a smile that was caught by heavy green eyes, and the warrior’s own kiss-reddened mouth quirked in response before leaning in, lower, his mouth at Dorian’s jaw and throat. The mage tipped his head back slightly, biting back an embarrassing noise, his fingers gripping at Fenris’ tunic. This was a sensation he could easily get used to.

  _‘Don’t get your hopes up,’_ His head warned, and Dorian shut his eyes while the elf continued laying attentions to the side of his throat. _‘You’ll only get hurt again.’_

 This was not an affair born out of love or affection, however, and the mage knew that. Fenris had made no promises – he hadn’t said anything _at all_ , really, but it only made it easier for Dorian to allow it, to lift his chin and offer more of his vulnerable points to the wolf. Without laying everything all out, he didn’t have to think further than tonight. He didn’t have to crave this affection. He did not need _affection_.

 He needed a _distraction_.

 And Fenris, pressing against him, laving at his skin, was doing a _spectacular_ job.

 A sharp bite at his throat had Dorian groaning suddenly, and he exhaled with a smile against Fenris’ temple. His hands had begun to wander again, making their way back down Fenris’ shoulders and back with more purpose, fingers tracing against muscle he could feel under the warrior’s tunic, his thumbs catching against the buckles and strappings of his armor. He tugged, questioning, and Fenris’ hands retreated with a grunt against his throat, fingers brushing at Dorian’s own while the elf fought his way out of his armor. Dorian’s fingers hovered, having no idea where to start helping, so he focused on catching his breath and examining the warrior’s features while he was too distracted to notice.

 Fenris, lips kiss-reddened, eyes glinting and skin dark in the fading light, was even more breathtaking than he’d been in the great hall, when Dorian first laid eyes on him. If it got much darker, though, he’d barely be able to appreciate it. Dorian glanced past him, to the sleeping fireplace on the opposite side of the room, and _why hadn’t he thought of that before_ , with the temperature dropping by the minute as soon as the sun had hidden behind the horizon. An easy twitch of his fingers, a wave of his wrist, and the bundle of logs in the hearth crackled to life, the sudden glow startling the warrior into turning.

 He gazed at the fire for a moment before looking back, something hesitant, defensive in his eyes when they caught the mage’s own, and Dorian’s throat closed at the sight of it. The warrior remained tense, and the Altus tilted his head forward, his breath ghosting over Fenris’ mouth before pressing a slow kiss to his lips. The wolf exhaled against the seam of Dorian’s mouth, a long and arduous thing that gave in to the soothing gesture after a dozen more of the mage’s feverish heartbeats.

 Their mouths came apart, and Dorian was trapped by those reflective eyes as the warrior stepped back again a half pace to finish undoing his straps. The second that Fenris’ chest piece hit the floor, clanging loudly against the stone, Dorian’s heart felt ready to burst for all the speed with which it thumped against his ribs. The rest of his armor followed, the noise loud in the silence of the room, but Dorian kept his mouth closed, almost afraid that if he said a word, that Fenris would stop.

 When the elf closed the distance between them again, nosing at the soft flesh just under Dorian’s ear and biting at his jaw, Dorian bit back another moan, his eyes sliding shut. His hands slid to Fenris’ hips, pulling him closer, and the elf bit harder at his skin, hissing out a low breath and grinding against him. The enthusiasm had Dorian biting his lower lip, his own hips rocking into the motion, flicking hair from his eyes before finding Fenris’ mouth again and capturing it in another desperate kiss. His hands wandered, nails grazing the softened leather of his pants, over thin hips, thumbs pushing at the warrior’s tunic, easing it upwards until his fingers met skin. Fenris groaned into his mouth, markings flaring dimly at the touch, and the mage dragged his knuckles forward along the ridges of the elf’s pelvis. Fenris ground against him more fervently, and Dorian let out a rush of air, easing his hips back to map the situation with his fingers, too caught in the kiss to break it.

 His tunic, he deemed, was in the way. Eager fingers undid a number of toggles, starting from the lowest to halfway up Fenris’ stomach, and it was taking _too much time_ – Dorian abandoned the task, slid his hands lower again to find the waist of his pants instead, fingers careless in their haste, and –

 The warrior let out a sharp grunt, breaking the kiss and bucking forward when the Altus’ knuckles brushed against the growing bulge between his legs. Dorian froze, his breath escaping him as he snapped his eyes upward and found Fenris’ gaze, heavy and _hungry_ , and in an instant, little else mattered at all. His fingers took up their quest again, unlacing and pulling until he worked the warrior’s pants loose enough that he could move a hand inside, palm dragging over the hardening length he found within.

 “ _Fuck_ ,” He breathed in accompaniment to another moan on Fenris’ part, and while the elf dug his fingers into Dorian’s biceps, the mage licked his lips and bit at his tongue, easing Fenris’ leggings further down his hips before taking him back in hand. The warrior kissed him again.

 The weight of him was heavy in Dorian’s palm, half-hard and stiffening by the second. The mage wrapped his fingers around Fenris’ length with an experimental, firm stroke, and the other man broke the kiss, panting against his mouth with a whispered growl before diving back in again. Dorian caught his bottom lip, sucking on it, and Fenris groaned.

  _Maker,_ he had to have this elf. Exhaling into Fenris’ mouth, he pressed his knuckles against the other man’s chest, pushing him back a few steps. The warrior made a low noise, licking his lips as he went, and when Dorian put both hands on his hips, lowering himself to his knees while keeping Fenris in place, the elf sucked in a breath. As Dorian glanced upward, it was to find heavy lidded, lust-blown eyes, Fenris’ loosened hair sweeping out from his forehead as he leaned over, hopefully for a better vantage. The mage smiled, his lips swollen from the rough kissing, one hand slipping around the back of Fenris’ thigh as the other took him in hand again, pumping his fist leisurely with a deliberate breath against the sensitive skin in his grip.

 His smile split into a grin as Fenris moaned, low and gruff in his throat, and he tipped his head to mouth at the lyrium lines dipping into the inner curve of the warrior’s thigh. The sensation tickled his mouth, and there were hands, fingers digging gently into the skin on the back of his neck, a thumb pressing into the base of his skull briefly before raking through Dorian’s hair, catching the tie and flinging it off easily. The mage shut his eyes to the tightening grip into his locks once they were freed, and stuttered out a short moan, his fingers digging slightly into Fenris’ thighs.

 His head was turned, directed closer, and the Altus smiled, his lips brushing against hot, sensitive skin. The fingers in his hair tightened, and Dorian wet his lips before guiding the tip of Fenris’ cock between them, taking him into his mouth in one fluid motion.

 The warrior swore suddenly in a broken hiss, and Dorian shut his eyes, the tingling sensation sharper than it had been while kissing the elf’s markings. He pressed his tongue to the source, dragging it slowly along the base of Fenris’ length. The elf stuttered and his hips shuddered forward to follow him, but Dorian pulled his head back with a smile and the briefest graze of his teeth against Fenris’ skin, earning him another curse. A glance confirmed his suspicion; a strand of lyrium tattooed along his frenulum, the pale white-blue of it stark against the dark color of his skin. In an instant finding it insanely erotic and feeling ashamed for thinking so, he glanced up to a tightening of the fist in his hair, and found Fenris watching him. He exhaled shakily, mindlessly against the elf’s erection, and the wolf clenched his teeth. His cock twitched, along with a muscle in his thigh, and still, Dorian hesitated, needing to know.

 “Does it hurt?”

 Fenris blinked, and then furrowed his brow, the fingers in Dorian’s hair twisting before smoothing over the sting. “Not… Enough for me to wish to stop you, obviously.” His voice, _that voice_ was rough velvet, and Dorian stared, his breath escaping him. The continued pause had the elf licking his lips, letting out a strangled noise before straightening up. “ _Mage_ ,” He moaned, tugging at Dorian’s locks insistently, and the sound he made had Dorian swallowing in response, nodding and pumping the length in his fist in atonement, placing a wet kiss to the head before taking him into his mouth again.

 The lyrium pulsed against his tongue, but Dorian only moaned at the sensation, and Fenris responded with a louder noise, bracing himself again against the wall, fingers digging into the stone bricks. His hips twitched, driving him deeper, and the mage let loose a low, rough sound, his eyes falling shut. Hands against Fenris’ thighs, warm under the leather of his leggings, Dorian helped set a pace, hollowing his cheeks around the warrior’s length and bobbing his head.

 Fenris held his breath, eyes on Dorian as his pelvis twitched, the fingers in the mage’s hair directing him. His breath was broken, punctuated by a hiss of a curse, and Dorian’s ears perked to the whisper of Tevene, eyes cracking open and glancing upwards. He drew back, and let Fenris direct him forward again, taking him further in, until the head of his cock nudged at the back of his throat.

 Another hiss, and Fenris straightened up, or tried to, fingers scraping against stone, and he rolled his hips, fingers tightening in Dorian’s hair. His hips eventually found an easy pace, and the Altus moaned again, shutting his eyes and focusing on the feeling of Fenris fucking his mouth, tongue slipping against every inch of skin he could reach with every thrust. His own neglected erection, confined by the tight leather of his pants, strained with every sound, but Dorian only dug his nails into Fenris’ legs, eager to hear every small noise the warrior made.

 It was a glorious chorus of tiny gasps, strangled moans, and long, broken hisses of breath, while Fenris’ hold on his hair never relented, and Dorian focused on taking him deeper and deeper.

 The warrior went silent, rigid as a stone carving as he came, and the rush of heat into Dorian’s mouth, down his throat, had the mage letting loose a low, startled noise. He managed not to jerk back in surprise, and gripped at the warrior’s hips, easing him away while trying not to spill seed all over his chin. He sat back on his haunches when he could, fingers trailing down to the backs of Fenris’ knees.

 Swallowing, Dorian moaned, licking his lips with a private smile. A glance up let him know that it wasn’t entirely private, and the heavy green eyes boring into him had the mage’s heart thundering even louder in his chest. Fenris seized him by the chin, lifting his head, and Dorian let him, exhaling. His lips came apart to let out the breath, and Fenris hissed out a curse, guiding the Altus to his feet. Their mouths met almost clumsily; Fenris’ fingers had woven themselves back into Dorian’s hair, and the mage only moaned, his tongue writhing against Fenris’ own.

 It took a moment to register that he was being pulled at, and Dorian grinned, wetting his lips while he let the warrior guide them. The backs of his knees collided with the ancient wood at the foot of the bed, and instead of stopping, the elf let out a throaty noise, shoving Dorian backward and onto the mattress. He landed with a short, almost manic laugh, biting at his lower lip when hands grappled at his clothing, wrenching the fabric of his half-cloak to get at the buckles underneath. “ _Easy_ –“

 Deft hands undid them, skilled fingers familiar with Tevinter clothing, and Dorian exhaled, the _rush_ of that familiarity shooting straight through him. His head dropped back, and he bit his lip, grinning past it when Fenris’ eyes shot up to his face at his sudden slackness of his body. He huffed out a breath of a laugh, and the elf furrowed his brows curiously, but went back to work.

 Fenris swore a little at the sheer _amount_ of clasps and buckles and, after a moment, turned his gaze up again. “You _could_ help out.”

 Dorian glanced at him, and grinned. “And miss this? I haven’t had someone undressing me who didn’t fumble at every little knot in –“ A flash: pale, thick fingers simply ripping the ties out instead of undoing them, laughing about ‘Vint fashion – and Dorian inhaled. _Distraction_ ; banter was no longer cutting it. He leaned up ono his elbows, and then further up again, looping an arm over Fenris’ shoulders to pull him down, locking their lips together all over again.

 Fenris grunted into the kiss, but relented, returning it with a certain enthusiasm. His fingers continued without him looking, pulling buckles free and unlacing every knot he found along the way.

“ _Lazy_.” The warrior teased against his lips, and Dorian laughed, tilting his head up. Fenris laid attentions instead down the column of the mage’s throat, teeth grazing at his pulse before muttering. “Maybe I should be, as well. Leave half of _my_ clotheson and make a mess of us both.”

“I won’t complain.” Dorian hummed, and cracked a small smile. “I could be dead in a fortnight; I’ll take what I can get.”

 Fenris’ hands paused, and the warrior glanced up. He furrowed his brows for a moment before lifting one. Dorian heard the question unsaid, and swore at himself. And he’d been doing so _well_. He exhaled, and dropped his weight into the mattress, still mindful of the fingers caught on a buckle around his waist.

 “Oh, don’t mind me - I’ll just continue waxing dramatic until you get on to pounding me into incoherence.” Those fingers tensed, and Dorian glanced down his nose at the elf. “That _is_ what you planned to do, yes?”

 The grip on his clothes tightened while Fenris’ eyes narrowed, and he made a guttural noise before _jerking_. Dorian heard and felt a series of sudden tugs that gave way to short sounds of seams tearing and fastenings being ripped from their anchors. He swore just as suddenly at the elf, hissing out a familiar curse that Fenris fell forward to swallow, biting on the mage’s lip. Dorian’s body jolted to the sharp sensation, grunting, and instead of shoving the warrior off of him, he lifted his hands, wrapping one around the back of Fenris’ neck, holding him there as he returned the abuse. Their teeth clacked together on more than one occasion before Fenris pulled away with a whispered growl.

 “ _Agere non loqui Tevene, magus_. It would be a shame if I have to hold up to my end and rip out that wicked tongue.”

 He’d slipped, and hadn’t even realized it. Dorian’s heart raced, adrenaline mixing with anticipation, and panted to try and catch his breath even though it was leagues ahead of him, narrowing his eyes with a sudden grin at the bruise he’d left on the warrior’s lip. If there was one thing Dorian enjoyed toying with, it was fire.

 “ _Ego te provoco temptare_.”

 The dare fell from his lips, and his answer was a sharp flash of white-blue light. His hand was wrenched from the back of Fenris’ neck, wrist pressed into the mattress in a rush of motion, and Dorian’s chest heaved with a shaking breath, lifting a thigh to bump against the warrior’s side, rolling his hips upward when Fenris remained. The mage found his grin again, and a small laugh with it – even if it broke off into a shuddering moan when Fenris rocked forward. His hand slid away from Dorian’s wrist, down the strappings along his arm, and undid the clasp of his cloak, brushing aside the ripped flap of his vestments to pinch vehemently at a dark nipple.

 Dorian hissed, and used his freed hand to catch Fenris behind the skull, pulling him in for another breathless, bruising kiss. When they came apart, his words were a ragged gasp. _“Tace nunc et pedicabo me.”_

Fenris stared, and his gaze darkened, pupils pulsing in size before he let out a low breath.

 Strong hands grasped at his waist, forcing him over, and Dorian wound up on his knees. He fought his way out of his clothing – destroyed as it was, he’d rather fight it off _now_ than _later_ – and Fenris grabbed, unbuckled, pulled, _divested_ him of every scrap of clothing he’d come in wearing, throwing them without rhyme or reason off the sides of the bed, across the room, depending on which hand ended up holding it. The mage was left alone to kick off his boots and the pants that had been shoved around his knees, and he glanced back at the lack of hands upon him to see Fenris across the room, fumbling through a satchel off his belt. The warrior’s tunic had been removed before Dorian had even turned, and the mage hoped he’d have more time to adequately appreciate the view of those strong shoulders, the gorgeous lines etched into his skin – as unpardonable as they were, he hoped that Fenris knew that there was an exquisiteness to them that could not be denied.

 Still, some modicum of guilt for his countrymen had him averting his gaze from the brands, lowering his head and instead watching Fenris’ feet as he made his way back. The elf was stripping, working his leggings down and kicking them off along the way with more agility and grace than Dorian could even hope to muster in his current state.

 “Damned efficient,” He mumbled, mostly to himself, and Fenris slid a knee onto the bed between his legs, hitching his hips up again with one hand. Dorian went back to his knees, holding himself up by the elbows and tensing unconsciously. Two fingers, coated in slick and gentler than Dorian was perhaps expecting, slid between his cheeks, and he dropped his gaze forward, lowering his head with a small, long noise, hips twitching at the attention. The finger that eased its way in had little trouble, generously oiled as it was, and while Dorian writhed impatiently, Fenris held him still with one hand on his thigh, focused on his task.

 By the time he removed his fingers, Dorian was biting back every curse under the sun, _aching_ with need. He nearly moaned when Fenris shifted up closer, the heat radiating from his hips, his half-hard cock pressing against the back of his thigh. When Dorian moved to grab at the vial of oil, his wrist was caught, and the warrior leaned over him as he pressed it back onto the bed, his body sliding deliciously against Dorian’s own. The mage sucked in a breath, and Fenris dragged his mouth along Dorian’s spine on the way back. A brief pause, and Dorian shut his eyes to the sharp gasps of breath behind him, chewing on his lip before the head of Fenris’ length, hot and slick, was pressing against him, pushing inside.

 The sensation was overwhelming. The tingling spike of lightning coursing through him from that single strand of lyrium – _Maker._ The noise Dorian made was obscene, and he hid in the cushion under his face for it, even as a hiss escaped Fenris at the shift of his body. Fingers gripped at the mage’s hips, holding him still a moment, and Dorian dug his fingers into the sheets. Remaining still was the _last_ thing Dorian wanted to be doing. He huffed with another groan, twisting and turning his head. “Ffff _ffenris_ , could you _possibly_ – Fuck!”

 He cried out as the elf slid forwards an inch, dropping his head down again. His body trembled, and a single hand slid up his spine to rest at the base of his neck, thumb digging into the tense muscle there. The Altus inhaled, albeit shakily, and nodded, focusing on relaxing his muscles instead of tensing further. He moaned at the bit of friction as Fenris pulled mostly out again, and he was aware of more oil, cool against his skin, slipping inside him as Fenris pushed forward once more. It was easier this time, and again the slide of the lyrium tattoo shot sparks up Dorian’s spine.

 The mage arched his back, slowly, and rolled his hips carefully with another thrust. Fenris sucked in a breath, and Dorian lost his own, his eyes sliding shut. The hand did not leave the base of his neck, holding his head and shoulders to the bed, and when Dorian moaned, a curse behind the edge of his teeth, Fenris’ name escaping him, the warrior whispered out a breath, the words too far gone for Dorian too hear.

 It wasn’t long before the pair fell into a rhythm, Dorian rocking backward into Fenris’ hips, drawing him deeper, each thrust accompanied by that glorious thrill of lightning coursing up his spine. A shift of their hips, Fenris’ knee sliding his leg farther outward – and the lightning became fire, flashing hot and white behind his eyelids.

 Dorian bit back a shout, and again, his body shaking with every thrust while the elf quickened his pace, finding his prostate on nearly every thrust.

Stifling his moaning into the pillow, Dorian gripped at the sheets, his breath hitching in time with the hammering of Fenris’ hips into him. He could feel fingers digging into one side of his hip, nails pressing hard enough to undoubtedly leave little crescents in his skin.

 “ _\- fas - kaf - kaffas - “_ The curse spewed out of his mouth like a mangled mantra, and whenever the sound of it muffled out for Fenris to hear, he only pushed Dorian harder into the bed.

 Their pace becoming more and more frenzied with every thrust, the mage grew louder, one hand flying to Fenris’ wrist, on his hip, working his body against the elf’s own, the bursts of overwhelming sensation growing more frequent by the thrust. He couldn’t take much more. He couldn’t _stop_.

 Fenris jerked forward sharply with a growl, hips stuttering, and Dorian swore. Releasing the elf’s wrist, he reached feverishly for the erection bobbing helplessly beneath him, and caught his breath, as much of it as he could, pumping his fist out of time.

 He came with a cry, fisting at the sheets with one hand while the other jerked himself carelessly, spilling over the coverlet while his body rocked with the force of the spasming of his muscles. Fenris had gone nearly still, buried to the hilt inside of him, breathless as he rocked his hips in time. Dorian bit his lips, moaning quietly at the feeling of being filled, his limbs shaking, unsure of how much longer he could hold himself up. The elf relented with a low gasp, pulling out his softening cock, nails scraping along Dorian’s spine, and he caught the mage with a sated chuckle when he tipped, easing him instead to the side far enough that he could pull the sheets away and out from under the mage, throwing them over him instead.

 The warrior collapsed into a heap beside him, pulling the blanket up, and for a moment Dorian thought that would be it, until Fenris rolled onto his other side, to face him. Their breathing was loud, with the silence of the mountains seeping in through the destroyed wall, and the fire continued crackling away, lighting up Fenris’ face enough that Dorian could see him crack a distracted, spent smile. He returned it, licking his lips and closing his eyes, turning his face to the rafters and exhaling.

“You remind me of the.. _Pleasant_ parts of the North.” Fenris murmured, reaching to tuck the ends of Dorian’s hair behind his ear. Dorian blinked owlishly as that registered, and breathed out a small huff as he turned again to the elf. “Like... Dawn in Seheron.” Fenris’ eyes were shut, and his hand relaxed, limp onto the pillow beside Dorian’s cheek. “Or...” His words were drifting, but he was mindful enough to smile faintly, perhaps in memory of whatever he was seeing behind his eyelids. Dorian stared at him around the fingertips resting in his line of sight. “…Golden masks of Satinalia...”

Dorian’s throat was suddenly very dry. The tone of Fenris’ voice screamed homesick, to him, and resonated in Dorian in a way he hadn’t even truly realized that he had missed it. His mouth opened, taking in a breath, and the Altus couldn't keep a stupid grin from pulling at his lips. _“_ You’re still drunk.” He countered simply, and was rewarded with a chuckle that drew out into a low, content noise.

 “That… Is likely…” The elf breathed, and Dorian exhaled in tandem, rolling his eyes. Still, when he rolled onto his side and the hard, warm body moved to curl around him, his grin widened where the elf couldn’t see it. The cold feeling had abated, replaced with heavy warmth that came from liquor consumption, deep, bone-melting satisfaction... And something he couldn’t put his finger on before falling into sleep, wrapped in lithe, muscular arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This… Chapter… Was probably over the top. Haha it’s been yeeeeears since I put smut on the internet. I hope future sex scenes will not be so intense that they TAKE UP THE ENTIRE CHAPTER. So uh. Here’s a chapter. Of just… yeah.  
> I’ll be over there. In the hole. That I dug.  
> *haunted by ‘Smutty Literature~’ in Cassandra’s voice.*


	12. Favor

Cresting the peaks of the Frostbacks, the cold light of dawn filtered in through the gaping maw of the half-destroyed room. The chill had goosebumps prickling at Dorian’s arm, and when he unconsciously sought out the warm body he’d spent the night beside, his seeking hands met nothing but chilled sheets, the heat from his bed partner having long since cooled. Heavy eyes cracked open, and Dorian huffed, gripping at the sheets anyways as he strained his muscles into wakefulness. The room answered with complete silence, and a brief glance around showed no sign of the man he’d gone to bed with.

 He groaned, yawned, and rolled onto his back, tired eyes staring up at the unkempt ceiling.

 Well, it wasn’t entirely unexpected.

 Nor was it the first time Dorian had awoken alone, when he hadn’t fallen asleep that way. If anything, given his recent misadventures, it was turning into something of a recurring theme, if certainly not an _appreciated_ one. The mage sighed before blocking another yawn with the back of his fist. He let it draw out into a high moan, stretching and throwing his arm over his head. Really, what had he expected?

 Falling into bed with the elf had been poorly thought-out, at best, and it was just as much his own fault as it was Fenris’, to be honest. He could hardly expect breakfast in bed or a morning encore. Dorian could barely even be bitter about it.

 Barely.

 If he could simply be a little more convincing to himself, he could almost believe that it wasn’t some sort of bitter disappointment that held him to the mattress, limbs heavy and cold. That he could get up, get dressed, return to the library, and pretend the whole damned fiasco had never even happened.

 “ _Venhedis,_ ” Dorian muttered under his breath, digging the heel of his hand into his eye, fighting off the remnants of sleep. When he brought it away, he saw the smudge of kohl on his skin, and made a small, unhappy noise. The Altus sat up, sheet pooling around his waist, and he shivered again to the draft, glaring out into the glorious morning before throwing himself from the bed, a final shiver wracking his frame as he grabbed for his clothing from the floor. It was a little more rumpled and tossed about than he’d remembered – and everything of Fenris’ had been removed from the room.

 Trying not to think too hard about it, Dorian tugged his pants up over his hips, hissing. His clothes were far colder than the bed had been, and he immediately regretted deciding to leave before the sun at least had a chance to warm the room, even if only a little.

  _Bang bang bang._

“ _Broody_!” A familiar voice muffled its way through the door. Dorian jumped, and with a familiar, guilty sort of urgency, he collected himself and went about the room. Gathering the remainder of his clothing, the Altus dressed quickly, working his hair and moustache into some semblance of well-kept and not shagged-senseless; even if the torn buckles and seams, and undoubtedly whatever marks had been left on his skin would say more about it than he’d be willing to divulge. He was grabbing at his half cloak when the dwarf knocked again.

_Knocked_ , of course, being a polite term for the fist beating excitedly at the ancient wood. “Hey, elf, you up?” He called again, and Dorian turned to stare at the door, inhaling deeply and holding it. Something told him to stay, to simply wait the dwarf out and retreat from the room when he was sure no one would see him go. His pride, however, beat at the sides of his skull, and the mage strode to the door, squaring his shoulders. What had he to be ashamed of? Nothing. If Fenris could not be decent enough to explain to him that what had happened was a moment of – of _whatever_ it was, then Dorian did not have to be decent enough to keep it secret from mutual friends. Grabbing the latch, he licked his lips, and pulled it open.

 Varric was beaming, his lip tucked behind his teeth to let out a stream of sound that might have turned into the elf’s name, if it had been the elf that had answered the door. “-Sparkler?” He interrupted himself, looking confused, though only for a moment before realization dawned. His mouth opened, then shut, and he made a small noise at the back of his throat. Dorian made an effort not to look behind him when Varric’s honeyed eyes did just that, and he straightened his shoulders.

 He thought about looking sheepish, but knew it would be a lie.

 Really, in the end, he wasn’t sorry. Part of him hoped that Fenris, wherever he’d wandered off to, wasn’t really sorry about it either.

 Varric was staring at him, waiting for an explanation.

 “Yes, well. Good morning to you, too.” Dorian sighed, twisting the end of his moustache absently - a nervous habit, to fix his appearance when under a scrutinizing gaze. He might have imagined it, but he thought Varric’s jaw became even _more_ of a square.

 Ducking graciously before the archer could voice whatever was on his mind, the mage eased past him and down the hall, without giving in to the temptation to glance back over his shoulder. He did not want to answer questions. He didn’t even want to _hear_ questions, especially from a man who gathered as many details as Varric ever required. It was either by luck or divine intervention that the dwarf’s tongue remained stilled right up until Dorian was through the staircase, and out of sight.

 ✵✵✵

Dorian stared at his half-stuffed travel pack, brows furrowing.

 He just _couldn’t_ get the damned elf out of his head. Hoping that packing would ease his mind, entertaining the thought of even simply leaving before Leliana ordered him to, he had set about to preparations, but it had not kept him focused. He’d unpacked and repacked the same bag thrice, each time adding something he’d forgotten the first time, and Dorian was beyond his wit’s end.

 He couldn’t concentrate.

  _He couldn’t leave it at that._

 If there was one thing Dorian could never stand, it was leaving anything unresolved. Even if the damned elf had told him to get lost in the morning, or better, the night before, it would have been _something_. As it was, the Altus was drowning in _what ifs_ and _maybe I should haves_ , and he couldn’t keep his head up. Dumping out the contents of his pack over his bed one more time, Dorian spread it around, and swore to find that he hadn’t even packed his belt of potions. Glaring at the mess, the mage clenched his jaw, exhaled heavily through his nose, and abandoned the task, heading for his door.

 The odds, however, were against him finding his peace.

 Elves, even lyrium-lined, glow-in-the-dark ones were apparently very difficult to locate when they did not want to be found. Fenris was not in the yard training with the soldiers with that behemoth sword, nor was he playing cards, or sitting in the library, or staring at Solas’ paintings, or even drinking in the Herald’s Rest. Dorian could not find him. Anywhere.

 He found himself standing a ways into the Rest, Maryden’s melodious plucking filling his already crowded mind. Guilt gnawed at him, unmindful of the fact that Dorian still had reasoned that he had not been in the wrong. Fenris had started the whole bloody thing, with his void-forsaken eyes and _asking_ him to come in and that damned _mouth_ – The mage groaned at himself in anguish, and rubbed at his forehead.

 “You look lost,” A sharp voice from behind him startled Dorian out of his thoughts, and the mage turned, brows lifting. Sera stared back at him, basket of bread rolls tucked under her arm that Dorian was not entirely convinced were hers for the taking. When she saw him looking, she grabbed one, and held it out to him. With a brief, half-hearted laugh, he took it.

 “You don’t know the half of it,” he breathed, and rolled the bun between his fingers, but couldn’t find it in him to take a bite.

 The archer watched him, squinted, and then rolled her hip back, the basket retreating along with it as she seemed to settle into some semblance of standing comfort. “Alright,” She said, lips curving downward. “I’ll bite. What’s wrong?”

 The mage blinked. “Wh- Nothing.” He said, too quickly, and inhaled when she only squinted harder. It was not the first time that Sera read right through him, and the mage wondered if this time, it might be the last. Dorian steeled himself, squaring his shoulders, and looked resolutely at Sera’s forehead. That _awful_ cutting job. Somehow, the sight of it lightened his heart, just a little. “…Nothing, really. Nothing _new_ , anyways.” He offered vaguely, and took a petulant bite of the bread in his hand instead of trying to correct himself a third time. The dough was soft, and still warm. Sera knew the _second_ in which to break into the kitchens for anything fresh – and no thought of consequence to who the food might have been intended for, apparently.

 Sera only squinted at him harder. Dorian watched the creases multiply on her forehead, the wrinkling of her nose, and finally she gave a great heave of her shoulders. “Yeah, alright. Whatever, big people problems sure as shite are not _my_ problem, anyhow.”

 “I’m not big people,” Dorian answered, taken a little aback.

 “Ha. You’ve _always_ been big people.” The elf shot back, and took a hefty bite of a steaming ball of dough from the basket. A full mouth did not deter her from continuing, and his rebuttal had apparently been the response she’d been looking for. “You never shook it off, no matter how many piss-bogs we slept in, or how many more sunburns y’got. I got. We all got.” Sera gave a snort, and shrugged one shoulder absently, swallowing and going for another bite. Dorian stared, the thought dawning on him that she was _trying_ to get him to let his guard down. Without thinking, his shoulders sank, and it spurred the elf on. “I don’t think you really have it in you to shake it off. You’re too…”

 “Well spoken? Well groomed? Full of wit and charm, while being dashingly handsome, to boot?” Dorian tried his usual teasing tone, but it fell flatter than he’d have liked, and something brushed over Sera’s features, hesitant, before they smoothed again.

 “- I was gonna go with fancy-arsed but, yeah. Sure.” She snorted. Dorian found a tired, somewhat fond smile for her, and she drummed up a grin in return, but it faded quickly. Her eyes remained on him a long time, even if he didn’t meet her gaze; he could feel them, just as piercing as her arrows, digging at his skin. She shifted her weight, contemplating, and then shoved the basket at him, letting go before he’d even really taken it.

 Dorian scrambled to catch the basket, and barely managed it. While he swore in a whisper at wicker slivers, Sera rooted through her vest and the bags along her belt, finally producing a bolt of red fabric. She thrust it his way, and, still holding the stolen bread with both hands, the Altus stared at it, and then her, lifting his brows without understanding. “Um.” He said, when she wagged her fist at him, and adjusted his hold, reaching curiously for the cloth. When he took it, she rolled back on her heels, satisfied, and stared at him.

 “I’ve seen that face you’re making.” She said quietly as she took the basket back, and Dorian tore his eyes away from the linen in his fingers to stare at her. Under her uneven bangs, she frowned almost gently, instead of the shrewd way he was used to seeing. “Bad things are about to happen, right? Maybe you’re big people, but you’re good people, too, and I like you. So.” She gestured at the cloth.

 “I.. Don’t think the Red Jennies will help me, where I’m going.” The mage said without thinking, too caught off guard to catch himself, and went to offer it back. Sera stared at him, not taking it, and only relaxed when Dorian relented and slid it into a pocket.

 He didn’t think that there would be any Red Jenny or their friends in Tevinter. He’d never encountered anything of the like before coming South, but then, ‘big people’ in Tevinter had magical prowess to go along with all of those riches and political power, so if there ever had been, they were either very quiet, very skilled, or very deceased.

 The thought, however, was appreciated.

 “I’m not saying I’ll pull your ass out of another pucker in the sky. But if you’ve got shit coming your way, I’ve got arrows. So, y’know, yeah.”

 Dorian stared at her, and managed another short, surprised laugh, half at the support, and more at the slip into accidental-on-purpose allusion the elf was prone to falling into. The half-laugh earned him another short grin, and the elf rocked back on her heels, tucking the basket back into the curve of her hip. She glanced back over her shoulder to the door of the Rest, and then back to the mage.

 “Sssooo, I’ve gotta hide the evidence before the cook has a snit – more buns?” She offered, and Dorian exhaled with a quirk of his lips and shook his head. Her grin was sharp. “Yeah. Like _you_ would ever turn down _buns_.” She cackled, and Dorian watched while she took to the stairs, stuffing more bread into her mouth.

 His throat grew uncomfortably tight, and it wasn’t long before the mage retreated back to his room, pushing thoughts of Fenris aside more easily for the friends he’d be leaving behind. Who would Leliana’s plan be putting into danger, if he was unsuccessful? He’d be dead, but before that, he had no doubt that the Venatori would get every ounce of information out of him that they could. Twisted as the entire plan was, the Inquisition was counting on him for this. The least that Dorian could do would be to pull his head out of his ass and _try,_ so no one else would have to get pulled into it.

 When he returned to packing, it was with a surer sense of purpose than he’d felt all day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I fought with this chapter for far longer than I should have. I definitely have trouble letting go of some scenes, haha. Ended up scrapping the whole thing and starting over because I couldn’t take out the unnecessary bits. If anyone is interested in being wonderful and beta reading some future chapters, please do send me a message! I think right now I’d be the most appreciative of being told that I just need to GET ON WITH IT. Which is really what I’m trying to do. I promise this doesn’t take place entirely and uselessly in Skyhold.
> 
> DORIAN. GO PACK. FUCK. YOU NEED YOUR TOOTHBRUSH.
> 
> Otherwise, happy holidays, and HAPPY NEW YEARS, GUYS! It’s just about my birthday too, so. Uh. All the hectic. Tis the season of crazy and whatnot. THROW ME ON SOME ICE. Thanks for reading through with me this far, I hope you continue to enjoy it! 


	13. Into The Night

He woke to a travelling cloak colliding with his torso and head, covering him, the heavy wool of it near-suffocating for half a second before he was tearing it off and jerking up in his bed, his heart in his stomach. He stared into the dark of the room blearily and pulled at the net of his magic, waiting for whatever attack was coming next, not realizing just what he was holding in his hand.

 Nothing came, save suffocating silence, and eventually, the mage frowned. The panicked fog of his mind clearing, Dorian flicked his fingers in the dark. His heart still felt out of place, thumping madly and sending blood coursing through his ears, but the adrenaline only did wonders to his control of his own magic. The mage-light flared to gentle life by the door, brightening the figure he thought he saw there with dimly glowing eyes in the dark, watching as the points and lines of its body grew more recognizable with each pulse of light: arms crossed, body tense, and looking _livid_.

 “Fenris?”

 Was he dreaming? The haze of sleep was still heavy, despite the shock, and the mage was taking longer than he’d like to piece this whole scenario together. The elf narrowed his eyes, gauntlets creaking in agony as his fingers tightened around his biceps. It took a moment for the warrior to relax enough to drop his arms, but his lips were still set in a tense line, his jaw jutting out petulantly as he opened his mouth.

 “Get up. If you have nothing packed, leave it. We leave _now_.”

 Dorian stared, the cloak still heavy in his fists. The demand settled, he blinked, and while Fenris scowled a little harder, it began to register just what had been thrown at him. He glanced down, bunching the rough wool under his fingers. When he looked up again, he took in the details he’d missed. Bags and pouches at his hip heavy with supplies. The strap of a rucksack stretched over his chest. Sword strapped to the elf’s back, long hilt peeking over his right shoulder. He couldn’t identify the emotion, but it rolled both pleasantly and not in his stomach, fluttering upwards and leaving him lightheaded. “Y- You? You’re coming with me?”

 Fenris stared at him, something flashing across his eyes in the false light.

 “It seems I haven’t the choice.” His tone lowered, becoming something sharp, though the elf looked away. Dorian wasn’t sure if the bite of it was aimed toward him, or someone else. He inhaled when the warrior parted his lips as though to say something, but Fenris’ shoulders fell after another moment, his lips clamping back shut. Reaching back, Fenris grasped at the handle of Dorian’s door. “Be under the keep’s steps in five minutes.”

 With that, he was gone.

 Dorian, hair dishevelled more from his rude awakening than the sleep itself, stared at the door for a moment, piecing together what had just happened, and exhaling, long and quiet. He fisted at the fabric of the cloak that had been tossed at him, shoving it aside and moving to dress.

 He knew he would have questions, the next time he saw the elf.

 Now, with this turn of events, he only had countless more of them.

✵✵✵

 

No scouts or guards impeded their way out of Skyhold; not a single torch or shadow amongst the parapets, no midnight merchants tending to their stalls, and Dorian half wondered how so obvious a ploy could be something that would be construed against him.

 To doubt it, however, was to doubt the Spymaster and even _he_ knew that would be a bad idea. The mage followed Fenris through the courtyard, both of them staying to the darker shadows, unwilling to test their apparent, surely organized luck. Fenris glanced back over his shoulder once or twice, as though expecting Dorian to abandon him or proclaim this all a test, but Dorian remained a scant few paces behind, and had no words to appease him. Crossing the bridge, the pair made their way in silence to an outcropping of rocks that Dorian would have overlooked in any other circumstance. Fenris apparently had been given the real directions for their departure; Dorian followed, barely knowing the plan from here other than ‘flee into the night’. Horses had been left, ground-tied and silent in the dark, and the warrior barely hesitated before claiming the taller one, shrugging off his pack and attaching it to the beast’s saddle.

 “Your pack.” He grunted, holding a hand out when Dorian tried to make his way to the mare tied a few paces away. The Altus blinked at him, but slid his bag from his shoulder anyways, and held it out. Fenris grabbed it without another word, and roughly fastened it to the other side. Hoisting himself up, the warrior was resolute in not looking toward Dorian’s face, heeling his horse into motion. Dorian watched him, halfway dazed for a moment before pulling himself up onto his own horse. With a click of his teeth and a brief heel to its ribs, the beast set after Fenris’ own.

 The elf rode steadily and with haste that Dorian wasn’t exactly sure was warranted – though, given the details Leliana _had_ told him, perhaps haste was better. Another desperate thought was spared for Alexius, and again he hoped that part would be _staged,_ but Dorian nudged his horse to speed up all the same. He caught up to Fenris as the treeline sprang on the horizon, and the elf turned to him, fingers around his reins like a vice. For the first time since Dorian’s rude awakening, he really took in the elf’s demeanour; Fenris’ entire body was tight, wound like a coil ready to snap, every visible joint white with tension. Their eyes met, and Fenris’ clenched jaw worked for a moment, searching for his voice.

 When the mage raised his brows in question, Fenris’ furrowed on his forehead. “You have not asked where we are going.”

 Dorian sat up in his saddle, blinking. “…Should I?” The elf blinked, brows knitting further together, and Dorian adjusted his knees, trying to get more comfortable for what would promise to be a long ride. Had the plan changed? “We’re going to Tevinter, are we not? Did I miss a memo?” He tried a small laugh, and it was met with an uncomfortable silence.

 “... Wait.” Fenris slowed his horse, eyes flickering away from him. Dorian hesitated, mind still on his mentor, but he managed to slow his own horse a few paces ahead, and turned curiously. Fenris sat in careful silence for a moment, fingers gripping tighter still at his reins, and just when the mage was about to ask what the pause was about, Fenris lifted his head. “ _This_ is what you meant,” He started, brows furrowing. His voice lowered, reaching a dangerous pitch. “All that talk of reform. Of _change_... You _knew_.”

 Dorian lifted a brow, but an anxious knot twinged in his belly. “What? Well - of course I knew.” His lips quirked upward despite the bite in the warrior’s tone, but the expression he found on Fenris’ face had his smile faltering. The warrior’s eyes went wide for a second, then closed off so fast that Dorian knew in an instant he'd said something wrong. His mouth opened, and words fell out in a rushed attempt to fix whatever he’d just damaged. “Granted, I didn't know that it would be _you -”_

 “-And it would be _better_ if it was someone else, instead of me?”

 Dorian startled. “What? Well, _no,”_ He offered, wondering where that was coming from _._ His mouth snapped shut to the elf snapping his head towards him, and Dorian did not miss it as the warrior’s composure changed suddenly, sitting up sharply, shoulders rigid and square. _“_ I mean I have to admit that I’m actually maybe a little glad it _is_ you - Fenris?” He blinked at the venom in the stare that was shot his way, and he sucked in his breath when Fenris clamped his jaw shut and kicked his horse roughly into motion. The beast snorted and quickened to a surprised trot, only to be kicked again to break into a gallop.

 Dorian stared after him, bewildered.

 Was there even a right answer to that question, then? Of course, Fenris had stated he had no interest in returning, but – he’d been just as angry with the thought of it being someone _else_. Dorian couldn’t wrap his head around it. Fenris was showing no signs of slowing, and it became clear that if he wanted an answer, he’d have to catch him.

 With barely enough time to spur his own horse on to catch up, the mage took off, the sudden feverish pace kicking up snow and debris as they galloped down the mountainside and into the flat of the southward mountain pass. When he got close enough to call out, the warrior’s roan gelding was kicked to increase its speed, and Dorian lost him again. Scowling, the Altus did the same, his own horse snorting discontentedly. They raced down the valley, the rock under the layers of snow shredding and clattering as they went, but Fenris did not slow until they neared another rise in terrain.

 “Fenris!” Dorian called louder than he'd really meant to, but the wind rushing into his lungs made it hard to make any noise controllable. Fenris was a good dozen yards ahead, sending waves of snow up behind him, and Dorian was caught in the blizzard as it caught on the wind howling through the pass. He had to squint through it, the cold biting harder at his fingers and face, and he called out again.

 This time, there was a reaction.

 The elf took a sharp turn, jerking on his horse’s reins. The creature kicked and bucked, angry at the sudden and rude treatment, but Fenris remained seated, glaring at the mage in the dark as his horse rounded to face him. The relief was all too brief, however, when Dorian realized he didn’t seem to have any intention of moving out of the Altus’ way to slow his own horse.

 Dorian swore, yanking on the reins in his own hands on instinct. His horse snorted, but slowed; it would not stop quickly enough to avoid a collision if he didn’t change his course, however. Instead of ramming into the elf, he veered to the side, pulling up beside the warrior with a scowl on his face, horse snorting as it came to a stop, but did not calm in its fidgeting no matter how he tried to steady it. “What in the _void_ , you damned elf?” He exhaled, glancing back over his shoulder and again to the warrior, brows knotted on his forehead. The cold had him irritated already, and the sudden chase had Dorian practically at his wit’s end – they were not even halfway down the mountain, and already Dorian wondered if they would actually manage it. “What was that about?!”

 Fenris wheeled his horse before answering, rounding on him and sending his horse shuffling backward despite the mage’s desire to hold his ground. “You _knew.”_ He spat again, and Dorian’s lips parted in defense, a reply just behind them. “This whole time, you _knew_ and you – and _I_ -” Fenris broke off with a frustrated hiss between his teeth, and the mage watched the expressions play on his face before he was kicking at his horse again, and taking off down the hill.

 This time, Dorian was a little more ready for it, and only lost a few seconds of time. By the time he caught up, they had hit the treeline. Snowy firs sprouted up around them, and his horse had worked up a generous lather, huffing and chewing at its bit. “Fenris.” He hissed into the dark, the sudden lack of direct moonlight making it only slightly more difficult to find the elf. His admission had been apparent cause for enough agitation on Fenris’ part to set his lyrium alight, and Dorian followed after the dim beacon. “ _Fenris_!”

 Finally, with a long, suffering growl, Fenris tugged on his reins, and his horse slowed. Dorian was tugging at his own reins when he went closer, his own agitation affecting the filter that kept his thoughts in check.

 “Is this a habit of yours, then? Running away when you don’t want to deal with something?” Alright, so maybe he was a little bitterer than he’d like to admit about a lot of things pertaining to the warrior. Fenris shot him a pointed look and went to kick at his horse again, and Dorian shot a hand out, startling the animal momentarily but catching Fenris’ horse by the bridle, easing it to a standstill.

 He didn't understand. What had the elf so riled up? Maybe he'd slipped and said too much when they’d spoken in the days prior, for the missive had said _no one_ , and - was that why? Had Leliana heard them speaking and decided Fenris would be too much of a liability?

 But then why had he been sent to the Inquisition at all, why would Dorian have been told to watch for the arrival of his escort on the day Fenris arrived in Skyhold? This whole thing was starting to make even _less_ sense, if it was at all possible, and yet there seemed to be some sort of convoluted plan to this chaos. He met Fenris’ eyes imploringly, and the elf watched him, frowning, before letting out a begrudging huff and looking away.

 “That was a step out of line, never mind. Just - listen, please,” He slid his hand along Fenris’ horse’s neck when the elf curled his fingers and looked as though he might try to lose him again. “I don't know why you weren't told. I barely had the skeleton of the plan, myself, and I think that's exactly the way they wanted it. Perhaps we have to find our own way, from here. Can’t we _try_ to work together?”

Green eyes slid his way, and the elf made a low, noncommittal noise. Dorian sat, hoping for _something_ besides that frustrating grunt _,_ but he was left waiting.

 The warrior remained, sitting straight in his seat, face impassive.

 No answer was given.

 The Altus stared at him for a long time; their still panting horses the only sound in the silence of the frozen woods. His cheeks burned, wind bit, and Dorian worked through another number of questions in his head before abandoning them all, his hand slipping from the horse’s bridle and towards the warrior, palm up. “Fenris,” He said, voice low. This wasn’t how he wanted to start this – the two of them were all they had, now. “Please. Talk to me.”

 Fenris scowled at the request, yanking on his reins, and his horse reared, chomping at its bit. Dorian’s own horse jolted away at the motion, and he swore, settling it before glaring at the other rider. Instead of trying again, or saying another word, Dorian clenched his teeth and nudged at his horse, urging it forward. He heard Fenris do the same without a word after his own animal finished shuffling in agitation.

 As they went, tension hung heavily about them in an uncomfortable haze. The thicket of woods gave way to another barren expanse of mountainside, the long path windswept and covered in another blanket of snow. _‘Do not stray from the Imperial Highway,’_ Leliana’s orders echoed in Dorian’s ears as his horse picked its way down the mountain. He could hear Fenris behind him, sending snow and rocks skittering past him now and then from the incline. _‘Make a point not to draw attention; you will be seen, but we need not be overly obvious about it.’_

 He glanced over his shoulder. Behind him a ways, brightened by the reflected light off of the snow, Fenris was still alight in agitation. So much for not being overly obvious; Dorian, with an upturned hood and a downturned face, could very much disappear into a crowd. An elf with a monstrous blade strapped to his back, lines carved into his skin that had the habit of _glowing in the dark,_ was going to be an entirely different experience trying to keep from notice. Dorian fell into thought, mind trying to work a way around it; he wasn’t paying enough attention to where he was going, while the path delved into a steep decline.

 His horse skidded against the shale under the ice with a misstep, the fragile rocks shredding underfoot, and both he and his horse let out a startled shriek. They dropped the length of three men in the span of a second, and Dorian gripped hard onto the mare’s mane while it tried to gather its footing, snow tumbling down along the hill beside them. He swore when its legs gave out from under it, and his shin impacted the rock before it was bucking again and throwing him from the saddle while her back end flew into the air. His tailbone collided just as roughly with the rock the horse had bared, and Dorian stared at the flailing legs entirely too close for comfort, shuffling backwards in a panic.

 Snow flew up beside him, and just before the horse came back down, strong fingers grabbed at his arms and pulled him out of the way. The points of Fenris’ gauntlets were sharp and chilled him even through his sleeves, and Dorian was only able to notice that much with everything happening so quickly. They stumbled into a drift a few more feet away from the beast as it scrambled to stand, and the mage turned panicked eyes upward to find Fenris, hands still holding either of his arms in a vice grip, his markings flaring one more time before dimming out. His mare settled, he heard Fenris’ horse whinny from some ways away above them and still, all he could do was stare.

 The warrior stared back, looking just as startled that he'd helped as Dorian was about it, and neither of them said anything for a number of jagged breaths.

 Fenris had probably just saved his life.

 Fenris was also the first to break out of their trance. He blinked, frowned, and his grip on Dorian’s arms tightened briefly before he was pushing Dorian’s body roughly away. “Watch yourself.” He chided, and his fingers grasped at air for a moment before he was clicking his tongue, turning away for the horse he’d abandoned further up the hill.

 Dorian stared after him, his hand absently over his arm where Fenris’ had been, trying process what had just happened. For Fenris to throw himself from his horse and dive in before Dorian was crushed – a mage, an Altus, and _whatever else_ Fenris thought of him – was definitely not expected, and yet, he _had_.

 The sound of his horse shaking its head, sending a flurry of snow out every which way pulled Dorian from his thoughts, and he turned to the beast, shuffling toward it to catch it before it had a chance to wander off. It moved toward him, though hesitantly, favoring one of its back legs as it did, and the Altus found his shoulders sagging. Of course she'd be injured. Clapping the mare on the neck when she approached, Dorian made low, soothing sounds, working his way around to assess the damage.

 The beast had managed to shear a good chunk off of the back of her leg, and Dorian frowned, crouching closer. There was no bone or severed muscle, thankfully, but she would probably have some trouble with the rest of the descent.

 “ _Kaffas_ ,” He whispered as he hovered a hand over the wound. He’d never had much talent with healing magic – something he’d never admit so blatantly out loud, but he mended the gouge as best as he could, the skin stitching itself back over the exposed flesh. It remained red and enflamed, but it was closed.

 Satisfied, the mage stood, adjusted a number of straps, and went to pull himself back up into the saddle. His added weight had the horse’s leg buckling before he could swing up, however, and with another sharp swear, Dorian was jumping backwards while the horse caught itself again. The mare gave a heavy snort, and the mage cursed his luck, glancing up to find Fenris already reseated on his horse, ambling his way closer and much more carefully than Dorian had been. His expression said he’d seen the attempt, and Dorian clenched his teeth, reaching lamely for the horse’s lead.

 Fenris reached for the reins once he was close enough, pulling them from Dorian’s hands and hitching the lead around the horn of his saddle with a practiced ease. He paused, exhaled, and finally turning his eyes to Dorian, he leaned sideways and offered the mage an arm to help him up onto his own horse. When Dorian hesitated, Fenris made a gruff, impatient noise. “If your horse cannot carry you, mine will have to suffice. Unless you’d rather walk –“

 “No,” Dorian said quickly, eyes wide. “That’s not…” It was not hesitation that froze his arms, and yet it still took a moment to shake himself out of it and take the warrior’s hand, pulling himself up. The seat was not made for two, and he ended up probably closer than Fenris would have liked, if his stiff shoulders were any indication, before he shuffled back and behind the saddle. They remained still while he got settled, and once Dorian was content that he would not fall off, he exhaled. “Thank you.”

 Again Fenris’ shoulders tensed, and his head turned, but not far enough for the mage to see his face or the expression on it. A short noise was all that he offered, and then they were moving forward, only as fast as his lame horse could keep up.

 The strain between them stretched thinner and thinner with every step, until Dorian couldn’t take it any longer. “Now are you going to tell me what had you so upset that we had to have a race and _destroy my horse-“_

 _“Mage.”_ Fenris hissed over his own voice, and Dorian seethed, but shut his mouth. He scowled, glancing down to search for a place to put his hands, and settled on hanging on to the back loops of the saddle, his thumb toying with one of the straps of their packs, aware he was fidgeting - but without being able to vent, it was all he could do.

 They rode on until the sun peeked over the high mountains surrounding them, and the cold had settled into Dorian’s core. The travelling cloak, despite the thickness of the fabric, did little to ward off the chill, especially covered in as much snow as Dorian’s landing had caked into the fabric. When they came upon another thicket of trees, the Altus sat up, placing his hands on Fenris’ elbows to catch his attention. The elf tensed, then hesitated, glancing down their winding path for a moment before turning his head only enough to catch Dorian from the corner of his eye. “I can’t feel my fingers,” Dorian said between chattering teeth, and flexed his hands for emphasis. “I understand that we can’t set up camp. But there is no sign of pursuit, and I’m starving, as well – Let’s just build a small fire. Warm up. Just… Stop. For a little while.”

 Fenris kept forward, though more slowly, and when he tugged the horse to a standstill, Dorian found himself practically holding his breath, eyes locked on the angles of Fenris’ profile in the low light.

 The silence stretched on, and then Fenris was huffing, his own fingers clenching and unclenching as well, as if only noticing now how the cold had seeped to the bone. With another, more quiet click of his tongue, he tugged on the reins, and pushed the horses toward the clustered thicket of trees along the side of the path, searching out a spot that would curtain them well enough from sight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Sorry about the bit of a wait (and all this back and forth, these boys have a lot to talk through and work out in the days ahead!) but this chapter was a MONSTER and I've been hit with the 'write all the future scenes!' bug and it's still going strong. The good news is that the next two chapters are already over 2k words and so hopefully are VERY CLOSE TO DONE.  
> As always, thank you for reading!
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you all for the lovely comments and kudos so far everyone, I hope I can bring you MANY MORE CHAPTERS in the new year and that 2016 treats you all very well!


	14. Reason

 “Better?”

 Barely able to speak between the chattering of his teeth, Dorian shuffled closer to their small fire, reaching his hands out towards it. Really, if it was physically possible, he’d like to wrap himself bodily around the flames, but he’d have to settle for sitting just far away enough that his clothes didn’t catch fire. Even at the foothills, the region was near-unbearable without four solid walls around him. As it was, the comparably temperate foothills were still two days of riding’s worth away.

 Fenris, though, didn’t seem to overly mind. Only his feet, bare, were extended toward the fire, his boots set a modest distance from the flames in an attempt to dry off the snow that had melted into the leather. The elf glanced at him, and then away again, shrugging. His scowl was fixed firmly in place, as it had been since setting up their impromptu cooking pit.

 Dorian pursed his lips. Fenris had not said a word to him since the fall, and it was beginning to grate on his last nerve. He had tried thanking him, again, for pulling him out from being trampled, but it was met with silence. So too was his offer to help collect wood for their fire - his magic had lit the thing, but by then, he’d given up on asking.

 Unfortunately for him, the act seemed to serve only to have Fenris clam up further.

 He had briefly wondered if perhaps he _should_ have told Fenris everything, when he hadn’t even been sure it _was_ Fenris coming with him, but came to the conclusion that it hadn’t been his fault. _No one_ , the missive had said, and Dorian was near ready to light his own head aflame for all the frustration that one order had caused. Maybe if he just tried one more time… ”So, now that we’ve almost died and run the horses into the ground before daybreak, are you going to tell me what had you in such a state that you thought _running blind down the_ _mountain_ was a good idea?”

 Sharp eyes glanced his way, and Dorian watched the muscles in Fenris’ cheeks dance before he was turning his eyes down toward the fire without an answer. The mage exhaled, his body tense. “Ah, still talking to myself, then?”

 Without looking at him, Fenris made a small, irate noise before grabbing his boots, tugging them on and moving to stand. Dorian sat, watching in silence while the warrior stalked across the camp to their horses, slipping a hand over his own mount’s neck and adjusting the tie of its reins.

 “-Fenris!” He spat; he couldn’t take it anymore. The warrior tensed, hands freezing, and Dorian ignored the warning in that tension. Now that they had set out, this damnable elf was to be the only true company he’d have for the foreseeable future, and he was being an absolute _tit_. “ _What is your problem?_ ”

 Finally, the elf rounded on him, eyes ablaze. “ _As if you don’t know_ , mage.” His voice was little more than a hiss, and he abandoned the reins of his horse to stalk off into the woods, as though he needed air.

 Dorian stared after him, and decided not to let him off that easily.

 “No,” He started, scrambling to his feet. “Oh, no. You are not wandering off without giving me some sort of answer.” He kept Fenris in sight, making headway; either Fenris was tiring of running, or Dorian was about to have to dodge. He’d take his chances. “What – is this about me knowing it was you?” Sharp eyes snapped toward him, and Dorian released a visible puff of air, scowling himself. “Which I never knew for _certain_ , anyways, and really if you knew you really could have _said-“_

 “It does not matter when _I_ found out, the fact is that you knew and _did not tell me_.” The elf snarled, and Dorian stumbled in the deep snow, grabbing a thin trunk to keep from pitching forward. He stared at Fenris, and the look was returned for a solid minute before Fenris hissed and moved away again. The mage maintained the distance between them, wading deeper and deeper as they went.

 “Alright, fine, so I didn’t tell you! _I’m sorry,_ is that what you want? _This entire plan is not even mine_.” Dorian snapped, suddenly on the defensive, and it took a breath for him to calm back down enough to remember he’d been pushing in an attempt to get Fenris to let whatever this was off his chest. “Just – look on the bright side: the Venatori probably own their share of manses, and you _did_ say that you’d like to burn something to the ground on your return. Six of one, and all that-”

 Fenris did not turn, fists tight and extended by his sides. The lyrium glowed and dimmed again, and Dorian realized belatedly that the elf was probably trying just as hard as he was to remain calm. “And you think that would _please_ me? That that would make up for _any_ of this?”

 “Well, _no,_ but I didn’t think you’d be throwing a tantrum about it!”

 The elf snarled and wheeled around, advancing suddenly on the mage. Dorian stumbled backward, instead, but couldn’t get very far, his back colliding with a tree. “A tantrum?” Fenris growled, his lips pulled into an ugly snarl, and the creases of his face were so stark in the darkness that Dorian thought he looked more like a thing out of a nightmare than a living being. “A _tantrum_? Well let me apologize, **_Master_** , if my _tantrum_ is causing you _upset_.”

 The word took the breath straight out of his lungs. Dorian had frozen, mouth agape while he _stared_ at Fenris, just as helpless as if he were staring down a dragon’s maw. Cold dread crept back into the pit of his stomach, twisting and settling in. “Ex _cuse_ me?” He whispered, his heart in his throat.

 Rage, apparently, rendered the elf mute. His hands balled in and out of tight fists, lyrium blazing in his skin, and instead of forming words, all that came out was a low, enraged roar before he was turning away again to pace through the snow. The Altus couldn’t tear his eyes away, and he knew his mouth was hanging open, but he could not drum up the mind to shut it. He was reeling, details he’d overlooked finally falling into place.

 They were returning to _Tevinter_ , where the two had lived _very_ different lives.

 This entire time, Dorian had been thinking only of the effect that this entire ordeal would have on _himself_. He had more thought for the Venatori – for the people he knew in the Imperium that he would have to hide from, the anger, the friendships he’d be throwing away… What his family would think of him _now_.

 And Fenris - _Fenris._

  _“Kaffas,”_ The word escaped him in half a breath, and Fenris gave pause, taking in three long breaths to calm himself. The blue glow abated, but did not fade completely, still flickering perilously under his clothes. Dorian’s knees felt like warm jelly, and he leaned closer to the tree that held him up, his emotions flying a thousand different places all at once.

 Fenris was not – had _never been_ – a free man in Tevinter. The warrior would go back to being a slave. _His_ slave _?_ Dorian had never wanted to pace more in his life, and yet, his legs would not listen. He’d never meant for this to happen _._ Was this part of Leliana’s whole wretched plan?

  _How many lives did she intend on ruining?_

 “And you _knew_ ,” Fenris snarled, pulling Dorian back to attention, and the mage swore again, his arms rising uselessly in front of him.

 “I – I didn’t know _that!_ I didn’t… I didn’t think of _that_.”

 The words did not have the placating effect that he’d hoped, even if he’d known that they would do little, if anything at all. “Then enlighten me, mage. What _did_ you think I would return with you as? We do not go forward with the intention to hide your presence – _or_ my own. I am no free mage or noble son. I am not even _human_ to pass as Soporati, and _too many_ know how rare these markings are. The last time I set foot into Tevinter, I was a _slave_. What else would the Imperium see me as upon my return?”

 For his part, the Altus didn’t even know where to start answering to the barrage. Dorian was entirely thrown off balance. He pressed his back against the log, his hands still suspended uselessly in the air, and his knees wobbled to the point that he found himself sinking and being unable to fight it, ending up buried to his waist in the drift. This simply wasn’t making any _sense_. “But… The Inquisition _called for you_. Lavellan would never put someone back into slavery. She didn’t even _conscript_ – “ _She likely doesn’t even know,_ his mind was quick to note. Dorian’s breath left him, and he paled as he stared at the elf, his mouth hanging slightly open. “ _Andraste’s flaming ass,_ ” He breathed when it returned, and he crossed his arms in front of himself, feeling his forehead grow tight with an oncoming headache. The cold would certainly not help. “I can’t believe I couldn’t put this together.” The admission had the elf exhaling, loudly, and his feet slowed in the snow.

 “You… Truly hadn’t thought of this.” Fenris said, dark brows lowering.

 “No.” Dorian whispered almost desperately, hands coming up to press his thumbs into his temples. Fenris released a chuff of breath that didn’t sound entirely amused.

 The warrior sneered and slowed in his pacing, having already dug a trench from his movement in the snow. “There is something to be said for the inability of Tevinter mages to be able to think of anyone but themselves.” He said, and while Dorian felt the shot to his own ego, the one he prided himself on to be generous, or at least _empathetic_ , he had nothing to argue with, and quite literally no legs to stand on.

 “…I deserve that.” He said finally, and Fenris let out another sharp, dark bark of laughter. Exasperated, stormy eyes lifted in question. “- I’m sorry, is something funny?”

 Fenris wheeled, and stopped in his pacing. His breathing had evened out, though his brows were lowered, furrowed together over his nose, and the venomous twitch of his lips had not abated. “Having a magister admit that he’s a failure at being a decent human being is funny to me, yes.”

 “Altus.” Dorian corrected, his frown intensifying. Despite this late enlightenment, Fenris’ dismissal of proper rank _now_ irked him in a way he could not help. Fenris looked nonplussed, but kept his eyes on the mage for a time before stepping closer, exhaling long, slow, and with no minimal amount of effort. He seized the mage’s cloak by the shoulder, hauling Dorian to his feet, and Dorian did not fight it when he was shoved back through the trees and toward their sad little fire. The mage sat quite easily, his legs still not responding properly from the shock, and Fenris retrieved a wrapped ration of bread from his pack, throwing it at him.

It hit Dorian’s chest before falling into his lap, and fingers numb now from more than the cold peeled away the crisp paper around the dry bread, breaking off a piece but suddenly so very _not hungry_. The elf did not bother grabbing food for himself, rounding the fire instead and sitting across from him, closer this time to the flames.

 “There is no difference, in the end.” He shrugged off the correction belatedly, catching Dorian’s eyes and holding them. The firelight caught his features in contrast – Fenris looked sharper now that he was sitting still than he ever had been in motion. “Class titles mean little in a place like this. I call you _magister_ because outside the safety of the Inquisitions walls, it is what you are. A mage from Tevinter who holds power over men and gives little thought to the consequence of him gaining further power over those who already feel powerless.” At the mage’s sudden defensive posture, Fenris pressed on. “I imagine you’ve owned slaves.”

 “My family does,” Dorian responded automatically, the topic having come up entirely too often in a country where slaves were near non-existent and so were a scandalous and interesting topic of discussion. Fenris’ even gaze at his answer had him shifting in his seat, and the bread crumbled between his thumb and forefinger. “...Which... Would have made them my own by proxy, yes. But -”

 “So you own flesh, and consider yourself a good man.”

 Dorian’s words lodged in his throat, an uncomfortable weight disallowing him from speaking. He stared at the elf, who did not look away when he did, and then swallowed, being the first to break eye contact. “Own _ed_ ,” He whispered lamely, and from the warrior’s sharp grunt, he had not been quiet enough. Dorian worked his jaw in silence for a few breaths, and then muttered, one hand lifting to rub at his brow, trying to alleviate the growing pressure behind it. “And I... Have never claimed to be a _good_ man.”

 “Then what _are_ you?” Fenris spat with a sudden sharpness, and the mage felt his body tense. He dragged his fingers back through his hair, nails raking over his scalp, and his jaw twitched with the effort to remain calm.

 “A _man_?” Dorian shot back, tone tilting upward as though Fenris might have an answer for his own question. He threw the bread into the fire, his appetite thoroughly vanished. “Yes, I have faults. _Fine_. I can admit that. But you cannot sit here and tell me that you have none of your own-“

 “ _Do not_ compare me to you, _magus_.” Fenris hissed suddenly, and Dorian tripped over his own tongue.

 “-What do you _want_ from me?” He asked abruptly, throwing a stream of flame at the fire. The wood would burn down more quickly, the flames brightening the clearing, but he could not deal with this conversation _and_ the cold. “I’m _trying,_ Fenris. I’ve grown accustomed to living without slaves. I _grew up_ with it, and had to learn a great deal of things that I had taken for granted when I left. I very much doubt that I will simply fall back into it again.”

 “And that makes it _better_?”

 “ _Do not antagonize me_!” The mage snapped, and Fenris sat up straighter, his eyes sharpening in the light of the fire. It was the look of a predator; of a beast that no qualms about biting the hand closest to it. Dorian exhaled in a rattle and sat forward, elbows on his knees and his fingers laced around the back of his own skull. “Please,” He added belatedly, his voice barely above a whisper. He wasn’t sure if Fenris even heard him. “Nothing – _nothing_ about this is turning out the way it should. I’m not _meant_ for something like this. I’m not an actor, I can’t – I’ve always been proud of being a man who was true to himself. Always.”

 “ _Fasta vass,_ ” The inflection of the phrase had the mage flinching despite himself, and he imagined he could see the expression curling on the warrior’s face, he’d been the subject of his disdain so often in the short time they’d known one another. “If I must throw away my – my _freedom_ for this farce, surely you can dismiss your _pride_.”

 His heart hammered at his throat.

 Dorian shut his eyes, took in a harsh and shaky breath, and sat up straight, dropping his hands into his lap. He was careful to lower his gaze to the fire when he opened his eyes, and it took a long, quiet while for him to gather the bravery to look up. Fenris was watching him, and probably had been the whole time. Dorian’s ego took another shot, and he looked away guiltily.

 “You still take _many_ things for granted, mage.” The warrior’s voice was low, that gravelly timbre rougher than ever with his voice so quiet. Fenris sounded angry, still, though more so _tired_. The Altus kept his eyes on the flames, not sure of what he might say if he looked up. Perhaps it was easier for him to keep _not looking_ , as the warrior continued. “It is not only your life on the line, in this. Remember that.”

 Dorian brought his knees up to wrap his arms around them, but couldn’t find an appropriate answer to that, so remained silent.

 “I have no interest in dying because you cannot maintain a mask in a sea of masks. You may not know it, but you have worn one all your life, even if you have never realized it.” The mage startled, eyes drifting upward, but Fenris did not shy from the gaze. “Such is Tevinter. You would not have survived this long, otherwise.” Dorian stared at him, and Fenris’ eyes hardened. He kept pushing. “Even now, you wear one. Why else would you have agreed to this, if you are so true to yourself?”

 Dorian’s breath caught in his throat.

 His silence must have said more than he’d intended, if the way Fenris sat up straighter was any indication. When he looked to the elf, a chill ran down his spine at the expression on his face; He thought suddenly of Alexius, the hanging threat of his death, staged or not – but assuredly not, if he’d chosen to stay. His heart dropped to his stomach.

 He had an unsettling feeling that he hadn’t been the only one to receive such a threat.

 The elf stared, something swimming behind the green of his eyes that Dorian couldn’t read in the dim light. Dorian couldn’t find it in him to say more, but also did not dare to look away, wondering how the warrior seemed to have such an easier time reading him.

 Fenris sat, in silence, for a long while before standing - Dorian watched him, but said nothing when the elf retreated from the fire. Clenching his jaw, he wrapped his arms about himself, staring into the flame until it burned down to embers, and then further, until the embers were little but spent charcoal. The cold seeped back into his bones, and his mind was spinning.

 “Mage,” Fenris called from the dark, pulling Dorian’s attention from the small, dead fire. “…It’s time to go.”

 The Altus forced his frozen limbs into working order, wobbling to his feet, and he had his hands on his own horse’s saddle before his brain caught up to him, and he let go. Stumbling back a step, he looked toward Fenris, who was resettling their packs, and then back to the dark seal brown mare in front of him, glancing down to her leg. Chewing on his lip thoughtfully, he dug into a pouch at his hip, where he kept a roll of cloth for minor burns or quick tensors for wounds he could not help. He crouched beside the best, looking over her leg another time.

 A brief warming of his hands had water pooling around his fingers, the snow melting readily against the heat, and Dorian rubbed the moisture into the strip of cloth the best he could. The wrap would freeze, given a few minutes, but that was rather its intended purpose – the pressure would keep the swelling down, and the cold would only help with that. Magical healing, he was a bit of a lost cause; but practical theory meant that Dorian could at least do as well as a novice physician when it came right down to it – he’d had a lot of practice, with a certain rather accident-prone and magically disinclined magister’s son being one of his closest friends for a long time.

  _Alexius._

 The horse twitched its foot to the cold when Dorian started applying the wrap, but held still long enough for him to tie it, and the mage sat back on his haunches, taking a second to just stare at his handiwork and curse his own lack of motivation to learn more than _make it stop bleeding on the outside_. With a sigh, he pushed himself up to stand, clapping his hands together to brush off the residual moisture, and turned to find the warrior on his horse, standing quiet and rather still.

 Fenris was staring at him, something curious on his features that Dorian didn’t know how to name, though it was gone before he could even hazard a guess.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I feel like I should be banking chapters so updates aren't so sporadic but I JUST CAN'T HELP MYSELF. Thank you for reading!! Comments/kudos are always loved and appreciated!


	15. Enervate

Sleep did not come to him that night, when they stopped again to rest. Fenris had spotted torches a ways up behind them on the second night, so the pair decided that simply continuing on as long as they could was best. They rode through the night, continued on sun-up, and even longer still as they rode through exhaustion, their horses groaning and snorting at the abuse. The mare had stopped limping enough to bear Dorian’s weight again closer to the foothills, but neither traveller pushed their speed, opting instead to stay as out of sight as they could manage on their way down the mountain.

They strayed to the snow-packed path as little as they could to give the beasts a moment’s reprieve from climbing through buried brush, but could not find any place to pause and exchange their mounts – no travellers with which to trade or even steal from. Lower and lower they went, until the mage spotted the familiar dilapidated ruins that made up Sahrnia. The town would probably never recover, nor did Dorian think it should, but seeing it now, more abandoned and buried in snow than he’d ever seen it, he was reminded of Haven; of what it must look like, now, at the foot of the mountains to the east. He’d only gone back once to see the memorial that the Inquisition had constructed for the sacrifice the place of pilgrimage had born witness to, and pay his respects to those he’d known.

Dorian remembered that night. Segritt’s screaming, burning alive while they tried to find a way past the blocked door, and poor Flissa… Another chill had his arms convulsing, hands gripping at his reins while he tried to vanquish the memory. The hordes of corrupted Templars, the horrors, more lyrium than man – _that_ creature, the Conductor. Corypheus, and the Venatori who not only followed him, but would raise the lunatic to _godhood_.

Haven had been their first true stand against him, and they had lost so much. A chill ran through him, and he tightened his grip on his reins, steering his horse away to put Sahrnia at their back.

The men and women he was intended to be rubbing elbows with; they were capable of what happened at Haven _,_ and with no remorse. Thinking they had every right. Dorian would have to _cater_ to that. He hadn’t even begun the act, and already it was eating at him from the inside. He nudged his horse to hurry faster, if only a little, and when Fenris caught up, his look was curious, but the warrior asked nothing, his eyes instead straying warily to the towers of red lyrium that had infected the mountainside.

Clenching his already aching jaw, Dorian chased the thought from his mind. Neither man had attempted much in the way of conversation in the past day, both perhaps simply too _tired_ , and Dorian had found himself slipping into darker and darker thoughts toward what the future would bring, once they crossed the northern border. Once they returned to the place that held the warrior riding beside him as nothing more than property, and Dorian himself nothing more than a failed piece of a legacy.

If they could keep riding through the nights, at least, without being caught by the Inquisition. He had no doubt that to make it as believable as Leliana promised, she would send her best.

He just had to _stay awake_ , which was turning out to be easier said than done.

“Mage,” Fenris called, finally, when Dorian felt his body tipping forward a third time. His horse stumbled, and it shocked him back into consciousness. He turned his head, and Fenris furrowed his brows, tugging on his own reins. His horse did not fight the halt, its head drooping immediately to nose through the snow. Dorian found his own eyes following the motion of it, his awareness flagging again. There was sound above the line of his sight, lost in the powdery whiteness of the snow, and a chilled gauntlet on his thigh had him startling.

He stared down at the elf, dark circles under his bright eyes, and almost wondered aloud at how _tired_ the elf looked. “Camp,” The warrior said shortly, to which Dorian grunted, nodding and wheeling his horse toward Fenris’ own, stilling it before moving to dismount.

Heavy arms pulled their supplies from the saddle packs, and while Fenris tied the horses, Dorian set about putting his tent up. The canvas fought him every step of the way, and one pole refused to remain standing, slipping constantly in snow too deep to find solid ground. Dorian gave up as soon as there was a semblance of a tent, anyways, and threw his sleeping roll inside. He was asleep before he could even think to offer Fenris a hand with his own.

By the time he woke, it was dark. He nearly toppled the tent in his haste to exit it, wondering how long he’d been out, whether they had been followed, been _found_ , and where was Fenris – he stumbled to the sight, when his eyes adjusted, of the warrior bent over a small fire, roasting what looked like it was either a nug with its skin on or a fennec without. The light was low, and the scene was so _out of place_ , so free of the worry, the anxiety of the chase, that Dorian had to pinch himself to make sure he was not dreaming.

His arm stung, and the scene remained, Fenris’ eyes now on him from behind the dim beacon of the campfire.

“Good morning,” The elf said, despite the darkness that had enveloped their little patch of woods. His voice dripped with a sardonic sort of shortness, and Dorian took a moment to feel bad, but couldn’t shake off the still-dizzy, exhausted feeling. He walked – mostly stumbled, his legs nothing but jelly from days of riding – to the fire and fell inelegantly onto a shallower patch of frozen ground, grunting under his breath. Fenris gestured with a tip of his head to the carcass over the flames. On closer inspection, it was certainly a nug, the head mercifully removed, but those alarming little fingers still unavoidably _there;_ the skin was charred and the grease sizzled out of it, the smell of cooked flesh invading his nostrils. Dorian’s stomach growled while it turned over at the same time, and he shook his head, wrapping his cloak further about him instead. Fenris frowned. “You should eat something.”

The mage lowered his eyelids, and thought for a moment he might just fall asleep again right where he was. “I’m fine.” He said instead, avoiding looking up to avoid looking at the ugly little beast. He heard Fenris exhale and stand, but remained, hearing flesh being torn and figuring that the elf was taking his meal elsewhere. Dorian would probably honestly let the rest burn down into the fire; he’d never much cared for it, having probably been a little spoiled while travelling, saving the world and whatnot with a Dalish hunter who had no small amount of skill tracking down anything better than _nug_. 

Instead of retreating, Fenris’ tromping through the snow only came closer. 

“ _Eat_ ,” Fenris said again, grabbing Dorian’s knuckles and forcing him to close his fingers around that creepy little vermin’s paw. Hand? _Ugh._ His stomach turned again, and he made a low, weak grunt, but relented at the hard stare he was receiving. His head was still light from exhaustion, his stomach empty, and he had no more will to fight. He brought the meat to his lips, and took as much of a bite as he could manage. 

His stomach whined, and it was only then that he realized how _hungry_ he’d been. It still wasn’t roasted august ram, but he found himself taking a larger bite while Fenris sunk into the snow beside him, leaning forward to reach and rip off more of the meat. They ate in silence, both too preoccupied with sating their hunger to strike up conversation. 

The single leg, however, was still all the mage thought he could stomach. Grabbing a fistful of snow from beside him, he first rubbed the remnants of their meal from his fingers, wiping his hands on his cloak before taking another clean handful and planting his face into his palm. The snow was cool, refreshingly so, for his sluggish processes, and he noted belatedly that he was so tired that his body was barely registering the chill. This would have been useful information at any point before returning to the North, but better late than never, he supposed. Wiping the melted precipitation from his cheeks and brow, he lifted his face, and found Fenris watching him in the dim flickering of the low fire. 

The Altus felt his lips part at the look when it lingered, and he shifted in the snow, clearing his throat and wiping his palms on his robe. 

“We should head out,” Dorian mumbled, stumbling to his feet. 

Fenris made a noise of protest, and it only sharpened when Dorian teetered, almost toppling right where he stood. Catching himself on the stump he’d been using as a backrest, he grit his teeth as splinters embedded themselves into his palm, and Fenris shook his head. “Neither of us are fit to ride.” His tone brooked no room for argument, and again, Dorian found himself unable to, sinking again to a sit. “A night’s rest should not drive us back too far. Any pursuers, if they bother sending any at all through the Southern Pass, will have to stop and rest, as well. Just sit, mage, and regain what strength you can.” 

He watched Dorian hiss and shake his hand out, pinching numbly at the splinters in his palm, and made a low, exasperated noise before reaching for him. The mage startled when his hand was taken, and then slumped, bewildered, when the elf held fast. “Clumsy,” Fenris breathed, and Dorian almost broke into a laugh, if he’d had the energy to. He stared unabashedly while Fenris squinted in the light from the fire, finding the slivers and extracting them – doing a much better job at it than he’d been. 

“You’re being… Oddly pleasant tonight,” Dorian slurred suspiciously, and shook his head to try and wake himself. Fenris made a low noise, but didn’t respond further, focusing on Dorian’s palm in the dim. He had taken his gauntlets off to eat, and his hands were warmer than Dorian thought they’d be. The mage stretched out his fingers, trying to help, but his eyes didn’t take long to wander, sliding over the warrior’s arms and shoulders to pause on his hair, ever tied in that severe knot. When he came to Fenris’ eyes, he paused at the exhausted circles under them, darker than ever now that he had a moment to stop and look. “You don’t even look like you’ve slept.” He said absently. Fenris drew his knees forward to get better vantage, and shrugged. 

“I have not.” 

The statement startled Dorian enough to try and pull his hand away, but the elf held fast, half-scowling. “Fenris, go to sleep. I can-“ 

“ _Do not.”_ Fenris started sharply, but his shoulders sagged almost immediately, and he didn’t look as though he had a lot of fight to put up, either. Finally satisfied that he’d gotten the worst of the slivers, he released Dorian’s hand, and both men sat back in tense silence. The warrior licked his lips, wiped his hands, and tried again, though with a softer tone. “Do not give me orders or commands. Not until appearances are required to be kept up.” 

The mage blinked. Really, that was fair, but… “I wasn’t ordering you,” He offered, brows furrowing, and it took two breaths for Fenris to look back toward him. “I just… You really _should_ sleep.” 

The bags under the warrior’s eyes made him look much older. “Allow me to decide that for myself.” 

Dorian pinched his lips shut, held his breath, and nodded. He remained resolute to sit on guard so the elf could sleep, however, so wrapped his arms around his knees, and stared at the elf instead of the fire, not wanting the siren call of the crackling or the mesmerising lick of the flames to lull him back to sleep. This meant, of course, that when Fenris glanced at him again, he had no excuse for his staring, and he probably took a few moments longer than really necessary to tear his gaze away. In that span, he caught enough to see hesitation flicker over the warrior’s features, and then he was staring behind him and at Fenris’ own tent, who had apparently had much more luck in pitching it to remain upright and at least in the shape of a proper tent. 

“Pavus,” His house name pulled Dorian’s attention back to the elf in surprise, and the mage blinked, while Fenris glanced away. “At Skyhold. When you sought me out – what were you expecting?” 

Dorian blinked, brows knitting on his forehead. “What?” 

…Were they really about to talk about this? 

Fenris frowned. “Whether you… Thought that I would be sent with you, or not, you… We…” He trailed off into uncomfortable silence, and the mage stared, almost a little surprised at how awkwardly Fenris seemed to be handling the memory. “We…” 

They were really about to talk about this. 

“…Had sex,” Dorian supplied helpfully, his voice slow with exhaustion. Fenris furrowed his brow and shut his mouth, leaving Dorian to sigh and promise with a gesture that he would shut up. It still took another moment for Fenris to gather his wits again. 

“Why?” 

Dorian blinked again. “What?” 

“If you... Did not have any dishonest plans – if you thought, at the time, that I would not be travelling with you, and so by our… Coupling, you would not see anything gained,” Fenris paused, distracted, and Dorian kept staring, brows lifting. The elf was not looking at him, and seemed to be studiously not doing so. One thumb scraped the meat from the bone in his hand, and it seemed more a nervous tic than any actual conscious motion. His jaw twitched, and his brows furrowed. “Then… Why did you come to my bed?” 

Dorian balked. “Wh – _what_? You’re really so set on making me out to be a villain, here. You think I’d need to have some sort of dastardly motive to want to sleep with you?” 

Fenris tensed, sitting in fractured silence before exhaling. “I simply do not see why you would, without it being an opportunity to gain you something.” His brow furrowed, and he threw the bone he’d been picking at into the dwindling fire. Distracted, neither of them tossed in another branch from the pile of deadfall Fenris had managed to find. 

Dorian could do little more than stare. He opened his mouth, shut it again, lifted his hands, but could not find anything to gesture toward while he spoke, so they hung in the air, fingers curled toward his palms, and the Altus felt very suddenly rooted in place. Did the elf really think so little of him? 

“Is it so _difficult_ that you might think I wanted to sleep with you because your quick wit and a sharp tongue are qualities I find enjoyable? That I find you _attractive_? I just wanted-” He stumbled over his words, just in time, and shook his head helplessly. Fenris was watching him, his eyes narrowed in that way that Dorian was growing used to; gaze intent, thoughts whirring behind that intense green. “ _Kaffas_ , I don’t know. A distraction.” 

The warrior honed in suddenly, brows twitching downward. “A distraction,” Fenris intoned back at him, his voice low. 

Dorian did not know what to make of it. His lips shook, from the cold or something else, and words fell from his mouth. “Yes? That is... That’s all I’ve ever been allowed, for myself. If anyone should know that, I would imagine that you would.” He glanced up and found Fenris’ eyes, glinting with their preternatural light in the dark. The gaze was sharper than Dorian thought was really warranted, and it took him a moment to realize how callous his words probably sounded. He shifted in his seat, exhaling. “Don’t think for a moment that I was simply _using_ you, Fenris, that’s not – That’s definitely not what I mean. _Maker_ , I can’t talk about this. Not coherently. Not now.” His lips rushed through sentences, his exhausted mind trying to make it stop, but couldn’t. “I won’t deny _attraction_ , Fenris. I just… I don’t know what kind of an answer you’re looking for.” 

“A simpler one would have sufficed.” The elf answered succinctly, and ran his fingers over his scalp, tugging the tie loose and shaking his hair free. Dorian watched, mesmerized in his fatigue. 

“Nothing is simple.” Dorian returned, swaying, and resting more of his weight back against the broken tree. “Least of all _this_.” Whatever _this_ was. Be it the return, the Venatori, the elf, or this… _Thing,_ between them, that Dorian couldn’t entirely set aside to focus on the task at hand. The memory of the elf’s hands on his skin, fingers gripping, bodies sliding against each other – “And what of you? Was my falling into your bed entirely my doing? That sort of thing is more often a joint effort.” He watched those eyes narrow, and could make out the setting of Fenris’ jaw in the dying light. “If you thought I had ulterior motive, why did you take me to bed in the first place?” 

Fenris sat up slightly, obviously not expecting the question to be thrown back at him. The glow of the embers dimmed, and Fenris glanced away. “… A _distraction_.” He said, his tone harsh, and Dorian reeled back, brows lifting. Fenris only scowled, and remained staring steadfastly at the fire pit. 

The mage stared at him, lips parted, his voice knocked out of him for the moment. His mind swam through frustration and exhaustion, and finally, Dorian decided that right now, he certainly did not need this. He stood without another word, went back towards his half collapsed tent, and decided on more sleep, if they weren’t leaving camp and the elf wasn’t going to rest. 

That said, actually sleeping was easier said than done. Time passed, minutes or hours he could barely tell, and all the mage found himself doing was rolling around in his sleeping roll, the mounded snow comfortable enough in firmness but _certainly_ not in temperature, and his mind would not _shut up_ so that he might give in to his exhaustion. 

_Maker_ , it was cold. Dorian shivered again, teeth chattering in the wintry quiet, and burrowed further into his blanket. Even with his cloak over top, it wasn’t enough to keep the chill off him. 

“Cease that incessant chattering.” 

The mage jumped at the sudden, sharp voice outside his tent, and stared blearily as the flap was pulled open to reveal an ornery elf, the tips of his already dark ears and nose a little darker from the cold. A draft settled into the tent that had Dorian cursing, attempting to bundle himself up further. “And the tossing. It is keeping me awake.” 

“Sh-shouldn’t you be on watch or something?” He shivered, glowering at the elf just beyond his tent flap. Fenris rewarded him with a deadpan stare, and a roll of his eyes. 

“We are covered enough to not be seen from the road. It is too cold to stand out there without a fire, but a fire would have to be minded, and at this rate I might just fall asleep _into_ it. We’d be better off both getting some rest.” He paused as a spasm wracked through Dorian’s frame, and the Tevinter hissed softly, curling up further. 

“Right,” He managed, clenching his teeth to keep the chattering to a minimum. “Well then I’ll just lock my jaw shut and try not to die of exposure. Apologies for uncontrollable muscle reactions – they happen to be a _thing_ , but I will do my best.” 

There was a long silence, and just when Dorian thought Fenris had left, the tent panels shifted loudly in the quiet. He lifted his head, squinting out at the outline of it against the night, and blinked when Fenris reappeared, something tucked under his arm. 

“What are you – _hey!_ ” The mage half yelped when Fenris threw his sleeping roll into the tent, still rolled. It hit him square in the chest, and his complaint died out, but the confusion did not, leaving him unable to do anything but stare as Fenris crawled in after, grabbing his bedroll and unravelling it to spread it out over Dorian’s own. Once he was apparently satisfied, the elf kneed him in the thigh to move over, resulting in leaving apparently just enough room for the warrior to throw his weight down beside him. Dorian stared. “-What are you doing?” 

His voice came out weaker than he’d intended, and a tired, exasperated glare was shot his way in the dark. The only reason he could probably see it at all was that unnatural glint of gold. “What does it look like.” Fenris intoned, but it only made Dorian stare harder. Another shiver wracked through him, and the elf let out a frustrated grunt, grabbing him by the elbow and pulling him back down. Dorian hit the ground with a grunt of his own, and before he could move to sit up again, Fenris rolled closer. 

Dorian’s fight response kicked in a little belatedly. “Wh – get _off_ of me!” He snapped, swearing when the elf’s body touched his own; the skin of his arms were like ice, and the metal plates of the armor that he rarely took off were _even worse_. He shot an arm out, forcing Fenris to roll away and the elf half-sat up again, scowling down at him. 

Dorian glared into the dark, and Fenris half-sighed, half-growled before dropping again and forcing his way under the stacked bedrolls, fighting the mage’s arms and legs. “If you are so cold, stop your complaining.” Fenris hissed, eventually catching one of the mage’s flailing arms, and Dorian swore again, kicking a leg out, ending up tangling it with Fenris’ own before getting it caught in the corner of the blanket. The warrior gave a grunt and rolled, pushing Dorian onto the side facing away from him, and the metal of his breastplate had Dorian arching his spine away from it, the chill seeping almost instantly through the leather of his own clothes. 

“ _Kaffas - You’re_ even more freezing than _I_ am!” 

They ended up with Dorian mostly on his side, legs tangled in his bedroll, wrists caught by the warrior’s hand and held fast to the ground at his side. “If that’s the case, you _might_ be simply imagining your proposed death from exposure.” Fenris muttered, and his huff of breath swept at the hair at the base of Dorian’s neck. The mage twitched at that, fingers tightening into weak fists before releasing again. “Ridiculous,” The warrior grumbled in little more than a whisper, settling into the covers while still pinning Dorian with one arm, the other was stuck under Dorian’s side, laying palm up near his elbow. 

“Who’s being ridiculous?” The mage was still half-fuming, staring off into the dark at the side of the tent. “You _could_ just let me freeze to death tonight, and be on your merry way in the morning.” 

Fenris stilled, and then exhaled roughly against the back of Dorian’s neck. “Shut up and sleep, mage.” 

“ _You_ shut up,” Dorian countered childishly, and shivered again. When Fenris tightened his arms, he fought them. He managed to get one arm free, grabbing at the elf’s forearm before it was grabbed by his waiting hand. “Just – you hate me anyways, don’t you? Stop _helping_ and let me succumb to the elements in peace.” 

The tight hold did not let up. “…I do not hate you.” 

“Oh, yes. Very convincing,” Dorian spat, and wriggled again, his will to fight floundering. He couldn’t pry the elf’s arms off, but Dorian’s heart wasn’t really in removing him, anyway, more simply bitter about everything he could think of. “Taking every chance you can to take a stab. _‘Oh, there’s Dorian, just about thinking we can survive this if we get along – better remind him of what a piece of shit he is since he’s a mage from Tevinter!’_ ” 

“ _Dorian,_ ” Fenris snarled into the back of the mage’s neck, and his name on Fenris’ lips had Dorian freezing on the spot, his fingers digging into the warrior’s arms. Eyes wide, Dorian felt his heart pick up an erratic rhythm, and it only worsened when the elf tensed, and then sighed, his breath heavy and warm against his skin. “I do not hate you,” He said again, rough timbre low and gruff, but with a few less edges than usual. Dorian’s fingers loosened, and Fenris only held him a little tighter, though Dorian wasn’t sure if he’d even noticed. “And you are not going to freeze to death.” 

“It would be preferable to being accosted constantly when I’d much rather simply have _civil_ interactions with you,” Dorian shot back, tipping his head, but the muted darkness and his stiff muscles made it too difficult to see a damned thing, so he gave up. “The things you say… Can I not be the target of the poison that spews from your mouth until I’ve at least done something to deserve it?” 

Fenris fell quiet, and Dorian exhaled, still caught. Despite the rough start, he _did_ want this whole thing to work, even if it was never the way he’d want to go about it. The Venatori had to be stopped, one way or another, and Fenris _was_ a prime candidate for a bodyguard, but not like this. Not wrapped up in a plot that neither of them knew the full details of, running blind toward Tevinter as if that _was_ the whole extent of the plan. 

“I am… _Sorry_.” The word sounded almost as foreign to the elf’s tongue as the mage’s name had been, the hesitation in its use lending it more credence than he would think it warranted, in any other situation. Dorian stared at the canvas slope of the tent side, glowering still, though the knot in his chest was beginning to loosen. When Dorian said nothing, Fenris snarled quietly one last time and went to pull away. Without thinking, the Altus clamped at Fenris’ arm, catching one wrist, and he held onto it like a lifeline. The elf paused, and the mage exhaled, shakily; if he was asked why, he would not have an answer. 

Fenris, however, remained silent. He did not ask. His body slowly relaxed again, or at least relaxed as well as it was going to, and in silence, the pair settled in for a long night. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Phew! Sorry for the wait on this one, I was blindsided by a bunch of future scenes and I had to get them down before they ran away on me! Thank you for reading!


	16. Iterum Iterumque

As they went, the road became easier – the company was a little more complicated, but that, too, levelled out as days went by. Fenris seemed to be making a proper effort of lessening his antagonizing of the mage, and Dorian in turn had taken to saying less entirely, never knowing when what he might say might set the other off. The conversations they _did_ have had gotten a little smoother, but there was definitely still a layer of tension nearly every time either of them opened their mouth.

 Still, it was better than it had been on setting out.

 The snowy hills – still littered with towering columns of red lyrium – of the Emprise du Lion gave way to the thick woods and hilly plains of the Dales over the span of days, and even as the red shards grew more and more sparse, Fenris seemed trapped in a sort of dark awe at just how far across Thedas it had spread.

 “It’s everywhere,” He said as they made their way west, his attention held by a sharp, humming cluster of the crystal clinging desperately to a ridge of rocks. Dorian didn’t have much to say to that, but this was certainly not the worst infestation he’d seen marring the land.

 The mage didn’t remember seeing the lyrium this far west before, however, and it left a cold feeling settling over his shoulders. The Venatori had infected _so much_ of Orlais, and they weren’t even stationed in anything much larger than sparse camps of six men. The idea of what it might look like in Tevinter, where the Venatori would have far greater numbers, where they would not have to fight for foothold in a country where no one was hunting them down… Where hosts for the damnable ore were bought in droves from slave rings…

 Tevinter would be worse – _much_ worse, once he began to scratch at the surface. He had no doubt about that.

 It was not a comforting thought.

 They decided to stop as the sun dipped below the horizon, with little more to say about the lyrium scattered about. Fenris had taken Dorian’s silence as apparent cause for no real concern, but the pair of them had begun to learn to act off of each other without communicating, and so when Fenris slowed his horse, Dorian did the same, and while Fenris wandered off to presumably collect wood for a fire, the mage wordlessly took it upon himself to set up camp.

 It was in these quiet moments that Dorian thought they might actually be able to pull this off. In Tevinter, there would be no time for words. He would have to keep up the Act, and hope that Fenris would play along, no matter what was required of them. A chill settled over him as he finished setting up the tent, and the mage shuddered, blaming the retreat of the sun for the cold, but knowing that it was not entirely the culprit.

  _The Act_. That was what he’d taken to calling it; the characters, the darker bastardizations of themselves that both he and Fenris would have to play, come the time they encountered another person in the flesh. He knew the phrase was downplaying _a lot_ , but whenever he started to think too hard on what they would have to do, if the time came, _when_ the time came, Dorian’s mind had a habit of taking bleaker and bleaker turns. A number of the scenarios his mind had played through during the days left him with troubled dreams, when he slept at all.

 And when he did not sleep, his mind took turns that were bleaker and bleaker still.

 “You only put up one tent.”

 Dorian looked up from where he had sat to see Fenris at the edge of their camp, arms full of deadfall, and the mage glanced over his shoulder to the single tent he’d put up. He blinked, and then turned back. “Yes?” Dorian said, brows lifting. “It's cold.”

 Fenris stared at him, sighed, and threw the wood down into a haphazard pile near the center of their camp. The night in the mountains had not been the last that Fenris found his way into Dorian’s tent, or vice versa. The majority of the Emprise was unseasonably cold, still, and the two of them had forgone sleeping in private for the last few days until they'd hit a bearable climate.

 “It is hardly cold,” Fenris was saying, exasperation heavy in his tone.

 “Not _life-threateningly,_ maybe.”

 While it had begun as simple survival, Dorian could admit to himself that he had grown accustomed to another body’s heat beside his own. Now, the weather was better than mild, and while dew was settling as darkness fell, it certainly would not freeze. Maybe it was a comfort, for those quick days. Maybe he'd gotten a little too used to it, and he might have hit a point where he was only searching for excuses.  Their journey had been slow going, filled with watches while they rested, food that left a dry film in his mouth, and trudging through snow alongside his mostly lame horse, and on the rare, divine occasions where he finally got the chance to relax enough to _sleep_ , it was just so much easier if he was not alone.

 So far, it had seemed, Fenris would allow it.

  “How is tonight any different from another night, Fenris? One tent has done us just fine for days.”

 He wasn’t sure why it was only now turning into an issue – it was not as though anything had ever happened, beyond perhaps waking up in a precariously awkward position _once_. Other than that, who really cared if one woke up with their arm slung over another? Dorian was not deluded enough to think that it would lead to more, now, with their future months set out as they were, but he could at least take what small amounts of comfort that he could along the way.

 The warrior was glaring at him, and all Dorian could do was stare back, unease starting to twist in his gut. He couldn’t hold Fenris’ gaze for long, though, and when the elf came over with a low hiss of breath, he turned his attention to the dirt while the warrior set up the fire. Neither man said a word in all the time it took, but Fenris took to making low, aggravated noises between breaking and tossing in branches to the point that Dorian retreated from the fire and into the tent just to get away.

 Sleep, merciless as it was, was not forthcoming however, and so when Fenris doused the fire - who knew how long had passed, but it was still dark - and came to the tent, Dorian was still awake.

 The warrior moved into the small space testily in the dark, jabbing at Dorian’s legs and knees for long enough that the mage whacked at his arm. “Quit it,” He said, scowling, and earned another knee in his hip for the effort. “ _What is your problem_?” Dorian finally snapped, elbowing at the elf, and Fenris hissed out a breath.

 Those unnervingly glinting eyes found him in the dim light. “ _My_ problem?” The elf growled, and twisted his body to catch the elbow digging into his side, yanking the mage sideways and clambering on top of him instead, his knees pinning Dorians arms to his sides. “ _You_ , you pompous, _spoiled little_ -” He broke off into another snarl, and bent over Dorians frame, lowering his voice. “Considering previous events, it should be quite clear to you that for some reason, around you, my judgement – my _restraint_ seems to vanish into thin air. Yet you continue _pressing.”_

  _“_ Pressing to _what?_ ” Dorian shot back; the elf was being ridiculous - but when Fenris only hissed out another breath, stretching his body over the mage's own instead, Dorian tripped on his own tongue. His nerves responded all at once, his heart pounding in his chest, his back arching on base instinct, his lips parting with a rushed intake of breath. Fenris ground his teeth, the sound of it nearly audible from how close he came to closing the gap between them.

 It took a second for Dorian to realize that was _exactly_ what Fenris had meant.

 “You are insufferable.” Fenris whispered, shifted, and Dorian bit back a noise that might have been embarrassing, if the automatic arch of his body was not already doing a decent job of being embarrassing enough. He couldn’t help it – well. Perhaps more, he didn’t necessarily _want_ to. He was apparently more than alright with giving in to the hard plane of the warrior’s body, even if his mind was swift to remind him of just how it had ended, the first time. The harsh roll of Fenris’ voice had him clenching his teeth. “Has it ever occurred to you what _I_ might do, if this continues?”

 Dorian caught his eyes; that fierce, blazing green behind the flash of gold, and his breath caught in his throat for a second before shuddering through his lungs. They hadn’t spoken of it, not since that awkward conversation by the fire, and Dorian had certainly thought that was the end of it. He hadn’t expected, hadn’t dared – and yet certainly Fenris had been _thinking_ about it, if the stretch and lean of his body, the breath against his ear, was any indication. For once, for a merciful, brief moment, the thought of it was all that was invading Dorian’s senses, too. “ _Please do_ ,” He half-groaned, and Fenris’ breath jarred against his jaw, the elf rising to exhale against his lips. “The way things are at this moment, I _more_ than welcome following through with some bad ideas.” His words were a little bitter, despite him not entirely feeling that way. It left Fenris hovering over him, eyes wide, brows furrowed, and they shared breath for another moment before the elf was growling and pulling away.

  _“Fasta vass.”_ Fenris bit out once he had mostly pushed himself to his knees, and Dorian swore right back under his breath, both hands lifting to rake his fingers back through his hair as he realized what had just happened. The warrior knocked his knees against Dorian’s sides as he moved off of him. “No matter what we are headed into, mage. I have _no_ intention of being your last _bad idea_.”

 Dorian shut his eyes to that, breath coming out in a rush between his teeth. It hadn’t sounded quite that bad of a phrase until it had been said out loud back to him. “That isn’t... Fenris, that’s not what I meant-”

 “It certainly _sounded_ that way.” The elf replied sharply, and the mage bit his tongue in frustration. “I have said before that you speak without thinking. Perhaps I should take my own advice and not act without doing so.” Fenris moved again, retreating from the tent with a flap of canvas, lost to the growing dark beyond it, and Dorian kept his fingers in his hair, the heels of his palms digging into his eye sockets.

✵✵✵

 When Dorian awoke, he was the only one in the tent. It didn't look like Fenris had come back over the course of the night, and the mage certainly didn't remember it happening. The horses were gone as well, which had Dorian panicking until he spotted the tack and saddles piled near a tree; while he might not put horse theft above what Fenris was capable of, he didn't think the elf would bother leaving the gear behind. His mind wandered to the night before, to what he'd said, to every one of his actions that had taken them up to that point; he _had_ been pressing. He couldn't argue that fact. He just wasn't sure what, if anything, he had been pressing _for_.

 Grunting out with a hiss, the mage rubbed at the growth of hair on his face, rough and short, and sighed heavily, setting out to start a fire for breakfast instead of dwelling over something he wasn't even sure he wanted to figure out.

 They did not talk about it. Fenris returned with the horses, and barely made eye contact with the mage while he tied and redressed them. He didn't ask for help in taking down the tent, rolling and stowing it away on his horse’s saddle. Dorian read the tension in the elf’s body, and only exhaled, finding himself with no desire to get into it.

 “It's a long way around the Waking Sea.” He said instead, and Fenris paused, turning to look at him. The mage ran his fingers through his hair and down his face another time; he hadn't had a proper shave in days, but now he did not want to linger for too long, either. It would have to wait. “Should we stop into a town along the way and pick up more supplies? Perhaps trade the horses?”

 “There is a ferry that is closer than the nearest town.” The warrior said after a moment, and Dorian blinked up at him. “It is a smaller vessel, but not well known. It should fit us as well as our horses manageably, and there may be a trader on board or at either side willing to show us their wares. It is more used as a goods transport than a passenger vessel, anyway.”

 “A ferry?” Dorian said dumbly, drawing his brows upward.

 Going over water was certainly not ideal in his opinion, but it would shave nearly two weeks from their travelling time. It was an opportunity that he couldn't find it in him to pass up, even despite the tumultuous tide of the Waking Sea.

 “Where?” He asked, rising to his feet.

 If Fenris was surprised that Dorian wasn’t more hesitant, he did not show it. They tacked up the horses in relative silence, but when they set out, a little of the tension built back up on the elf’s shoulders. The mage turned away from him after a while and fell behind, unsure of how to apologize, and spent a few miles staring at Fenris’ back. He wanted to bring it up, he _wanted_ to apologize, but he had no idea how to go about it without enflaming the entire situation. It was easier not to mention it at all, and hope that Fenris never would, either. He would only have to be more careful, going forward. And definitely set up both tents, the next time it came to rest.

 “Why?” He asked eventually, desperate to have the elf say _something_ , and Fenris tensed for a moment but turned to him with a raised brow. Dorian opened his mouth again, kicking his horse gently forward to ride alongside him, and was quick to be more specific before he was facing an answer to a different question. “To join me. Why was it you?”

 “You mean besides for the apparent sadistic pleasure that _someone_ must be enjoying to have gone through with this debacle? I haven’t the faintest idea.” Fenris answered, his voice dripping with uncontained distaste, and the mage sighed audibly, turning his head to meet Fenris’ eyes, trying to convey without words that he hadn’t said it to instigate anything. Fenris stared back, and eventually dropped his shoulders, his nostrils flaring. He averted his eyes after a while, and Dorian watched while the muscles in his arms tightened, the lines of lyrium jumping with the motion. “I was summoned to assist in the ‘ _training of forces’_ since the removal of the Seeker from the ranks of the Inquisition,” He said after a moment with furrowed brows and half a sneer. “It seemed an honest request at the time.”

 “For the Inquisitor’s part, it might have been,” Dorian tried, but was only met with a sharp huff of breath.

 “I knew Cullen in Kirkwall, while he was a Templar. Varric knew my mastery of the sword from up close, having seen it constantly for nearly ten years. If Hawke was ever asked about my skill, she would have -” He tensed at his own mentioning, and inhaled, holding it tersely for at least a ten-count before hissing out through his nose. “If the summons had been to _babysit an Altus_ , holding his hand all the way home and throwing myself back into chains, I would not have come.”

 Said Altus tried to frown at him, but the warrior had turned his gaze studiously away, and it didn’t have any effect.

 “Yet here you are,” Dorian said, and Fenris shot him a look. “Especially after an admission like that – Why are you _here_?”

 “Because it was _asked_ of me.” The elf answered too simply, and Dorian continued watching him, his own brows furrowing the longer the silence stretched on. Eventually, Fenris sighed, and shrugged his shoulders before rolling them. Watching the action left a phantom ache in Dorian’s own; the sooner this constant riding could end, the happier his body would be. “…Trust has been placed in me to assist with this. The Inquisition asks for much, but…” He shifted in his seat, and Dorian wondered if the riding was getting to him, as well, or if it was the admission that left him uncomfortable. “I do not think they would have called me if they did not think that you could do it.”

 Dorian blinked, and found himself staring at the warrior for probably longer than necessary. Clearing his throat, he couldn’t help but twitch his lips upward into a small grin. Bravado was easier to slip into. “They’ve got that right, at least. I'll protect you,” the mage said, and Fenris let out a short bark of snide laughter that had Dorian looking at least halfway offended. Fenris did not seem to care.

 “Quite the opposite. I have been sent to protect _you_.” Sharp green eyes turned his way, and then slid back forward. “But that is neither here nor there; we are sent, and so we go. I do not have to enjoy a moment of it.”

 “Maybe so,” Dorian replied, but his brows furrowed all the same while the statement left a bad taste in his mouth. “But if we are stuck together the whole time and you are insistent on being miserable, I hope that it won't project badly on your opinion of me. I do not need a _babysitter_ , Fenris.” He said, shifting his grip on his reins while he shifted in the saddle, frowning at nothing in the distance before turning his gaze to the warrior riding beside him. “An ally, though… Perhaps even a friend. That is certainly not something I would turn down.”

 Fenris was quiet for a few paces, and then dropped his shoulders. “I cannot make that a guarantee.” He said quietly, and Dorian frowned a little more deeply before the elf shifted in his seat with a short huff of breath. “But I can try.”

 Dorian exhaled, and finally pulled his eyes away. “I suppose that’s the best that I can hope for.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Aaaah, boys, keep trying. Keep trying.
> 
> Iiii fought with this chapter and scrapped so many attempted scenes it isn't even funny. BUT. THE NEXT SCENES ARE PRETTY SOLID, I THINK. I HOPE. Thank you for putting up with me and as always, thank you for reading!


	17. Sea Legs

Two days later, they were still riding. Dorian hoped saddle sores were not in his future, but his ass definitely ached with every step of his mare, and their breaks had been entirely too short for him to regain full feeling in his thighs. “Maker’s mercy, Fenris, does this ferry even _exist_?”

No answer came. With Fenris riding behind him, Dorian wasn’t sure if the elf hadn’t heard him, or if he was simply being ignored. He’d been told to keep riding north since the sun had come up, and now it was nearly dusk - despite Dorian’s attempts, Fenris had said nothing else to him all day. The thick greenery gave way to a rocky shoreline, and Dorian slowed his horse, taking in the sight of the Waking Sea while the sun hovered over the faded silhouette that he could barely make out – perhaps was even imagining – of the northern shore. He heard Fenris come to a stop behind him, but still received no answer, and the mage sighed, settling into his saddle.

 “Perhaps we should go back. The rocks here aren't like the Storm Coast - there isn't much to hide behind, should anyone be looking.”

 And it was true enough – the columns and caves that littered the Fereldan shore were numerous and massive; here, the shore was still scattered with stone formations, but the tide in the narrower inlet of the Waking Sea had whittled the stone down to silt in most parts, and any caverns would be either flooded or on the verge of collapse. The way would be treacherous, and while he looked in both directions, he saw no sign of a ferry, or anyone daft enough to put a boat on this water at all.

 Fenris came wordlessly up to his side, stretching his shoulder back before he slid forward in his seat, patting his horse solidly on the neck and looking out to the churning water. Dorian turned to him, and the warrior sat up straighter, glancing back and forth down the coast, squinting to the west.

 “There,” He said finally, and the Altus blinked, narrowing his eyes into the distance. He saw nothing but rock, sand and driftwood, but Fenris clucked at his horse, and started making his way down. The mage made a few short noises in protest, but followed, taking extra care; his mare snorted and squealed in agitation, rearing her head, but obeyed. The way was slow going, but he’d rather take the whole day getting down than have another incident that left the mare lame for another week, and they made it to the bottom with a snort and an irritated stomp, the horse’s back end ducking briefly. Fenris had moved on ahead, leaving Dorian to urge his horse faster through the sand to catch up. He could see a speck in the distance, but it was still a ways away, and Dorian couldn’t tell how large the vessel would be. At any rate, he hoped it was seaworthy. The tide crashed against the beach to accentuate the thought, and Dorian’s stomach coiled in discomfort at the mere idea.

 “How did you know this was here?” He asked just over the sound of the crashing shore to distract himself, turning his head toward the elf instead of the tide. Fenris put his feet forward, and drew back with a shrug.

“It is not the first time I have had to use it.” He said, and left it at that.

He was left waiting for any further explanation, and as they came up closer to the ferry, the mage took in just how run-down it was. They were too close now for him to voice that opinion, however, or turn around, so he just cast Fenris a look, hoping he could _feel_ the disdain rolling off of him. Fenris glanced back, as if he had, and furrowed his brows before dropping his gaze and turning his head forward again. Dorian stared after him curiously while the elf rode forward another few paces, and made to move off of his horse closer to the pier. Dorian did the same, walking the mare up to Fenris’ side, and blinked when he received a long look from the elf. Fenris exhaled sharply through his nose, brows furrowing again a little more deeply before smoothing out his features again with a duck of his head. He lifted his hand, palm out, and when Dorian only stared at him, the elf clenched his jaw. “Your horse.” He said, so quietly that Dorian nearly missed it. He blinked, glanced at the ferry, and made a sharp noise.

Right. Civilization, or the best substitute for it in the middle of nowhere. The Act. He licked his lips, cleared his throat, and eased his staff from across his back before handing Fenris the reins. Straightening, his shoulders, he inhaled with one last look at the elf before turning to make his way toward the sodden dock, to take in the ship that would bring them across and that much closer to being done with all of this.

The ferry itself was ramshackle at best, the gummily tarred vessel groaning in the waves that rammed at the battered dock, a bleak figure against a sky that promised no calm waters. The man he presumed to be her captain, going by the square of his shoulders and the sallowness of his face – not to mention the fact that he was the only man not scurrying about the board of the ship, securing cargo and messily slopping more pitch into new spitting, leaking wounds in the hull – was equally as weather-beaten. The ferryman stood in a cured leather jacket, and Dorian envied how it must keep out the spray, tucking his own woolen cloak a little closer about himself. The captain remained still despite the chill, holding a large oar against the pier as though it might be a staff. _Or any sort of weapon_ , Dorian supposed, if someone tried to smuggle themselves aboard beyond his notice.

 Luckily, Dorian had the foresight to bring coin with him.

 He stared at the man, and the man simply stared back.

 “... I wish to cross?” He said finally, and the ferryman squinted a wrinkled eye at him before leaning sideways rather obviously to survey behind him. Dorian glanced over his shoulder, and Fenris kept his head down, hood up, feet bare against the soaked dock. The horses pawed uneasily at the wavering structure, but remained tethered to the elf.

 “Slaves still gotta pay,” The man said, and scowled. “More of you comin’? I won't take that red crystal across no more. Not after last time.”

 Dorian stopped from where he was procuring his coin, and he stared at the ferryman for a moment, his voice failing him. With a sharp clearing of his throat, the mage clenched his jaw, and shook his head. “Just me. We’ve taken to shipping across land. Safer that way.” He smiled, though it was strained, and the ferryman puffed in response, flicking a bead of water from his gnarled nose.

 “Safer for me an’ mine, at any rate.” He grumbled, and looked behind Dorian again, gauging his apparent cargo. “Thirty crown a’piece for you an’ yer horses. The slave’ll be ten.”

 Dorian wondered, just for a broken moment, if that had been gauged more on weight, or worth. He felt his lip curl, just slightly, and turned it into a faint wrinkle of his nose and a twitch of his moustache. The captain continued, nonplussed and holding his eyes, almost _daring_ him to say something to give him away. Dorian might think himself a poor actor; but he thought he’d at least been doing a better job than _that._

 “If y’want a cabin, that’s a royal. Wouldn’t wanna get your soles caked with saltwater, would ya, serrah?”

 The disdain with which Dorian looked at him was not at all false. He produced the coin, wordlessly including the gold piece and clenching his teeth to the yellowed smile he received, and made his way past onto the deck, trying his model best to reign in his need to tell the man where he’d much rather plant his sea-soaked footwear.

 When it was Fenris’ turn to cross the planks, the horses whinnied uncomfortably, and all three stopped when the ferryman planted his oar directly in front of the elf, sending Dorian’s mare into a half-rear that was handled with all the practice of a man who’d done it for years. When the horses stopped, Fenris turned forward again, frowning, and almost flinched back when the human ducked in front of him. _“Ah,”_ He grunted, and if Dorian didn’t know better, it sounded almost sad. The mage turned to the noise, brows furrowing, and the man sighed, straightening back up and making no effort to keep his voice down. “Didn’t get far enough after all, did ya?”

 The mage’s breath lodged in his throat, and his eyes flicked from the back of the ferryman’s head to Fenris. He heard a bit of the commotion of the crew behind him quiet for a moment, and then start up again, their speech a little heavier but with no changes of subject. It only lead him to wonder how often recaptured slaves were brought back on this ferry, despite the same ferryman apparently being the one to take them across in the first place. It reeked of underhanded politics and skewed morals, and Dorian wasn’t sure which was more upsetting.

 The captain’s oar was pulled back, and Fenris lowered his eyes, leading the horses on, his brows furrowing on his forehead while his mouth settling into a firm line. Dorian’s throat itched to correct them, that Fenris was still free, he’d gotten far enough, he’d fought hard enough, it was _possible_ – but the words fell flat before they could escape while he watched the rigidity of the elf’s shoulders, the determined push of his steps.

 Blowing their cover now would do neither of them any good.

 Fenris settled and tied the horses along a space left by the portside, and Dorian watched as a pair of sailors approached the elf to bend in close to the elf. Eyeing the mage as they did, their tones were too hushed for him to catch over the sound of the surf, but the way Fenris tensed, the smirk on the crewman’s face, had Dorian tensing without thinking. “-Excuse me.” He called out in his best authoritative tone, earning him a sharp look from the taller of the two; face and shoulders riddled with scars, skin a dark beaten leather from the sun and the sea.

 Dorian straightened his shoulders, and inhaled.

 Before anyone could say anything else, the ferry was lurching into motion, and the sailors abandoned the elf with exchanged glances and one last, harsh glanceDorian’s way, heading across the deck to perform their duties. Fenris hitched his shoulders up, setting the last saddle down on a crate with the other, and returning to Dorian’s side. The automatic movements were unsettling, and Dorian’s stomach dropped when Fenris halted beside him, eyes and head lowered but his gauntlets in tight fists. Dorian shifted the grip on his own staff, rings grinding against the metal. “-Everything alright?” He said quietly, his stomach twisting with nerves. Fenris lifted his eyes, though briefly, and put in a good amount of effort to lower his shoulders.

 “Yes.” He said, though only barely, and Dorian nodded. The boat dipped under them suddenly and the mage stumbled a step to the side – sea legs were never something he had ability or interest in developing. The elf didn't seem to have such a problem, catching Dorian’s staff and planting it against the deck to give Dorian better leverage, and it was enough to ensure Dorian didn’t pitch forward and onto his face. His body didn't stop moving, however, swaying with the rocking motion of the boat, and just as he tried to swallow, he caught the look Fenris was levelling him with.

 His stomach looped again with another wave, and Dorian shuddered, a wretched noise tumbling from his lips before he could catch it. Fenris’ brow creased, measuring, and he slid just a little closer, bending forward to catch the mage by the elbow. “...You don't look so-”

 Dorian put up a hand suddenly, and rush-stumbled to the edge of the deck.

 

✵✵✵

 

Under the deck was possibly no better. The steady roll of the ferry against the waves, the whoosh of the sea and the creak of the old wood, the cluttered clatter and whisper of laden netting filled with baubles from Maker-knew-where, left behind as souvenirs or carelessly by other passengers, unless they’d simply rented one of the crewmen’s own quarters. The ‘cabin’, as the ragged man had so generously called it, was little more than a closet with a cot, and Dorian was glad that they had no extra gear to try and pack into the cramped room. It was dim, the light of a single oil lamp guttering with the dip of the boat, and the elf beside him pressed at his forehead.

 The cloth smelled of a mixture of seafoam and mildew, but it was _cold_ and right then, that was all that mattered. Catching Fenris’ wrist, Dorian slid the cloth higher to squint out at him from under it. “Thank you.” His words came out as more of a gurgled moan, and Fenris almost shot him a look that bordered on pathetic. The mage half-chuckled, and slapped at the warrior’s wrist. He cleared his throat, and was a little more successful on the second round. “Suppose I should have told you I’m absolutely useless on a boat.”

 “I would have only used that information to ensure we got turned around and were required to go all the way up and around the Free Marches,” Fenris answered, and Dorian managed another breath of laughter. Talking was alright; laughing made him a little queasy, still. Fenris seemed to take note of that, so kept him talking, and Dorian welcomed the distraction. “Though you definitely made a poor impression on the crew; tripping over yourself to heave nothing but air overboard wasn’t very intimidating.” The smirk on his face was near shit-eating levels, and Dorian groaned in embarrassment, pulling the cloth over his eyes with a broken chuckle of his own at his own expense. When it ceased, Fenris was quiet for a while, and Dorian soaked in the coolness on his brow and the dark beyond his eyelids. He heard Fenris shift in his seat, and exhale. “On the note of seasickness – are you feeling more yourself?” It took a moment, and Dorian peeked out from under the cloth. The elf narrowed his eyes when Dorian nodded, sliding the cloth lower over his eyes, and covering that hand with his own, the elf slid the cloth a little further up to get a better look. “Well, you’re no longer the color of a pond. If you’re not up for standing, you should at least sit up.”

 “Is that your professional opinion?” Dorian groused, but let Fenris ease him up to a half-sit, propping a collection of the mismatched cushions up behind him. The mage sighed, tilting his head back anyways, and reached blindly for the flagon of water he remembered Fenris bringing. It was put into his hand, and he drank a good portion of it before handing it back, dropping his head again with a groan. He hesitated for a moment in staring at the shoddy wooden ceiling and listening to the waves crash against the side of the ferry, but eventually, his need for something other than silence won out. “You don’t have to look after me. You could have just let me be pathetic and simpering over the side of the boat.”

 “Leaving it at ‘thank you’ would be more appropriate, I would think. Are you that eager to get rid of me when you can barely handle yourself?”  Fenris asked, leaning back in his chair, and as if to make a point, Dorian’s stomach rolled suddenly, and _violently_. The warrior lifted his brows, and looked unimpressed. “Bucket’s by the door, if you need it.” To that, the scowling mage lifted his head, and Fenris met him head-on with an even stare and a lifted brow.  “Go on. If you can get to it without assistance, I’ll leave you to vomit in peace.”

 He hiccuped, frowned, and cleared his throat – his voice, when it came out, was weaker than he would have liked. Weaker than it had been even only a moment ago. “I am not going to vom-“ The rebuke was interrupted by a clench of his throat with another rolling wave. So far, he’d been lucky, but the water seemed to be getting choppier, if that was possible.

 “Stubborn. Just accept help when it is offered, mage.” Fenris spread his knees apart, apparently getting comfortable, and while he watched Dorian struggle to get up, he exhaled. Dorian ended up with his legs swung over the side of the cot – the only one in the room, and this _cupboard_ was certainly not worth the royal he paid for – and ended up knocking a knee against Fenris’ own, crossing his arms over his stomach a moment before masking it by drawing them up over his chest instead. Fenris remained, just watching. “Why do you want me gone so badly?”

 The warrior’s insistence loosened Dorian tongue. “Perhaps because interacting with you is like putting my arm in a bear trap,” Dorian returned, his fingers tightening on his elbows. He jumped when Fenris let out a small but sharp laugh, not expecting it. He stared, and the warrior cleared his throat, glancing away. “And that – that is _exactly_ what I mean. You are a powder keg, with a fuse and there’s a lit match somewhere and even while everything might be going just spectacularly, if I breathe a certain way or shuffle a foot without looking –“ He made a noise that was as much puffed-out cheeks as it was his breath rolling in his throat. His arms dropped out limply to his sides, and he sighed jaggedly, one hand reaching up to pull the cloth out of his lap where it had fallen and gotten caught within his robes. “You explode into mirth or anger, and I can never guess at which until it’s already happened. I’d… Really like to be able to read you. Or for you to at least give me some warning when you’re tipping toward the anger bit.”

 He was met with silence, and honestly couldn’t say that was surprising. Dorian was growing used to receiving short answers when he spoke about _them_ , if any at all, and silence seemed to be Fenris’ most comfortable response to pretty much anything. So when the elf spoke, Dorian almost jumped. “…You truly want to make this ordeal amicable?”

 “I do.” Dorian said, and another roll had him lowering his arms to cradle his stomach again, breath shuddering.

 More silence followed his statement, save for the creaking and clanking of the boat, and the more Dorian focused on it, the more he felt his body swaying with every ebb and lift of the water they sailed upon. Talking. Talking was better. “The ferryman – his crew. Are they the same as the last time you were on this ship?”

 Fenris let out a short snort. “That was ten years ago. No, they are not all the same. _Some_ , however… Recognize me.” Dorian turned his eyes to the elf, and Fenris shifted in his seat, slinging one arm over the back of it and running mindless fingers up through his bound hair, weaving a few unruly strands back under the others. “I imagine the markings gave me away. They offered to slit your throat and throw you into the sea.”

 Dorian choked on his breath, and the look Fenris leveled him with was all too considering.

 The men leaning toward the elf, the dark smiles on their faces – suddenly made so much more sense. “Should I be sleeping with one eye open?” He asked, breath still lodged in his throat.

 Fenris sat still a while longer, the creases between his brows deepening before fading as his face relaxed, and he looked away. Dorian twisted the cloth by his knees, cooler still than his palm but no longer by any means refreshing. “I asked them not to.” Fenris said when the silence grew tense, and he leaned forward in his seat. “Though... I am not sure if that will matter. A few of them were slaves once, too. Simply, their masters did not put the effort in to have them hunted down. You are nothing more than a slaver to them. A man standing in the way of my freedom, alone and vulnerable.  If anything, I should be happy they made the offer, even if I will not take them up on it.”

 The words did nothing to comfort him. Dorian wrung the cloth a little tighter, spattering the remaining moisture over his fingers. This revelation was also definitely not helping the tumbling of his insides. Instead of dwelling on the very _real_ possibility, however, he tried to lighten the mood. “Now, I know I’ve…   _Said_ some things that might be considered rude, but really – I think plotting my death is a little over the top.”

 “Shut up already.” The warrior said, exasperated. He leaned forward, grabbing the cloth up from Dorian’s grip and tossing it toward the door, now that it was beyond use. When he turned back again, his brows were furrowed, and Dorian thought he might be closer than before, their knees knocking with more force. “I said you were as safe as you can be. I will stay in here to ward them off, if that makes you feel better. Get some rest.”

 “You just said the crew was trying to kill me. And now you want me to sleep.” Dorian said, and Fenris sighed, loudly, mixed in with half of a frustrated groan as he sat forward, hands hanging between his knees. “Yes. Not happening. Really, I’m of half a mind to act first, if it’s going to come right down to it. Nausea and all.” Dorian narrowed his eyes with a tiny smirk, half-joking, but Fenris did not meet his eyes.

 The tangle of his furrowed brow, the tenseness with which he knotted his fingers together, the strained twitch at the corner of his mouth; for all his complaining, Dorian might not know Fenris _well_ , but he knew him enough to see that the elf was bothered by something. Memories, recollections, thoughts and possibilities – the only way to find out was to ask, but Dorian was almost afraid to.

 The longer Dorian looked, the more he _wanted_ to. “Fenris, talk to me.”

 The words came out without thought to the consequence of asking. Fenris snapped his gaze upward, balked, brows furrowing, lips parting, and he _stared_ at the mage, looking a little lost. “About what?”

 “Anything,” Dorian said, voice quiet, and he willed his nausea to pass. Just for one Maker-damned _moment_. “Everything.” When the warrior only stared, the Altus sighed, licked his lips, and took in a shaky breath, searching. He wanted to know more about the elf. It barely mattered _what._

 Fenris stared at him for a while longer, and then shut his mouth, jaw tense, untangling his fingers and flexing them uncomfortably. Still, eventually, he spoke. “These are _good_ men.” He said, a little sourly, and struggled to find words to explain further when Dorian made a short, unimpressed noise. “I… Tried to stay. Here, on this ship, all those years ago. I am not the best deckhand –“ He smiled a little at that, at what Dorian thought might be a memory, and Dorian watched while a layer fell away, Fenris’ eyes losing a little of their focus. It passed, and so, too, did that whisper of a smile fall away. “-But I was not the worst, either. The ferryman allowed me to join his crew. I was here less than a month before another Tevinter trader came through, and Danarius’ searching of me was apparently widely known. I… The ferryman told me to jump ship; he would not tell the man where I’d gone, and I’d have another chance at freedom.” Dorian watched as the warrior’s expression became colder, the wrinkles forming again between his brows. “….I suppose he was right.” The elf said, placing his fists over his thighs, and Dorian snapped his eyes up from his knees. “I did not get far _enough_.”

 His stomach twisted, and it was no longer only nausea. “It’s not the same,” The Altus tried, fighting the lingering vertigo and the sway of his body. His head swam, but he felt the need to reassure the other man. “I am not – _enslaving_ you. You have not been caught. You are free. You are still free.” He slid forward, one hand reaching slowly out to take hold of Fenris’ wrist, careful to only touch the metal of his gauntlet. Fenris still tensed to the gesture, but did not pull back. “We do not go back to put you in chains.”

 Fenris lowered his gaze to the mage’s hand, and frowned. “Whether the chains are real or an act, they are still chains.”

 “And still... They are temporary. When they come off - it’s your call.” Dorian said, and raised one hand to brush stray hair from Fenris’ forehead. The warrior startled to the touch, staring, and Dorian’s eyes lingered on the triad of points on the elf’s forehead for another moment before Fenris sat back sharply, suddenly, his hands flitting upward to catch Dorian by the wrist to pull his hand away. He paused, then, frowning, and when he met Dorian’s eye, he licked his lips, fingers tightening as he seemed to work through what to say. Without finding anything, he only huffed out a breath and eased Dorian’s hand back down and away from himself.

 The mage still had his other hand resting on Fenris’ bracer, however, and while Dorian glanced down curiously, the warrior shifted as if to flinch away, but settled, leaving it instead up to the mage on whether or not he would pull away.

 Dorian, however, was too dumbstruck at having the option to do anything but sit very, _very_ still.

 Fenris did not sit in similar dumb silence, however. The look he was giving him, with furrowed brows that accentuated the lines in his face, was reading, _searching_ for something - perhaps a twitch, some sort of tell to give Dorian away as a liar. That he meant none of it, and would see Fenris back in chains after all.

 “Fenris.” He said, near silent, and the warrior focused on him a little more sharply, pulled back from his own thoughts. His brows lifted, and Dorian let his hand fall away. “What can I do to earn your trust?”

 The warrior narrowed his eyes, just slightly. He seemed to think about it a moment before answering, just as quietly. “If you need ask, you might not deserve to have it.”

A short breath. “That does not make me want to try any less.” Dorian was staring at him. He knew he was staring at him, and he couldn't stop. Fenris took a second to look uncomfortable under the scrutiny, and shifted in his chair, rubbing at his arm where Dorian’s fingers had been resting moments ago. Dorian’s fingers itched to reach for him again. “I... _Maker,_ Fenris. You do not make anything easy.”

 Fenris huffed out a breath, but his lips slid upward at the corners. “No. I don’t.”

 Dorian huffed right back in response, but something about it was almost fond.

 The warrior remained in his spot, and the silence eased into something more thoughtful, each man lost in their own heads for a minute. Dorian’s stomach even levelled, perhaps only distracted, while his mind worked. He didn’t want Fenris to be second-guessing his every word. Every gesture. He wanted Fenris to know that he’d have his back, no matter what came their way. They were in this, now, together, and Dorian would not rest until they both made it out of this. Alive.

 A thought, lighter than most crawling through his head, skittered across the forefront of his mind. “…Is that why you’re in here, mother-henning at me?” He asked, voice careful, his eyes crawling up to Fenris’ face. Fenris, here, sitting watch for this Magister’s son while he was _seasick, of all things_ – Fenris did not seem the type to hold someone’s hair back, and so for what other reason could he be …? “Because the crew said they’d kill me?”

 “…I am not mother-henning.” Fenris said, matter-of-factly, but it did not answer Dorian’s question, and they both knew it. The mage watched him, open-mouthed, lost for words.

 Certainly, the mission would be over and failed, but done with, if Fenris just let them throw his body into the sea. “…You’d really protect me,” He said in an absent whisper, as though it really was a wonder, and Fenris’ shoulders stiffened, but he did not move. Dorian’s mouth opened, and word tumbled out. “I’d protect you, too, if you needed me to say that out loud. When it comes down to it, I will. I swear I will.”

 There was a short note of hesitation. “The word of a Tevinter does not mean much to me.” Fenris said, his brows furrowing, and the mage watched the apple of his throat bob slowly while the warrior looked away.

 “Then don’t take it as the word of a Tevinter.” Dorian replied, shifting forward without thinking, grasping at air before moving, slowly, _so slowly_ , hands hesitating a few inches from Fenris’ shoulders. He took in a breath, and settled his fingers tentatively on the armor protecting him. He watched while Fenris’ breath hitched, waiting, but the elf did not pull away again. “Forget every other part. Altus. Pavus. Mage. This is _me_ , _Dorian_ , promising you that I will do everything in my power to make sure you get out of this. I will die trying, if I have to.”

 That seemed cause for Fenris to pause, and the warrior’s brow twitched. “…Let us hope it does not come to that.”

 “Well. Decidedly not,” Dorian puffed, and bit his lip. “You shouldn’t have had to put yourself in this situation. I do not want to keep you in it. If you want out – you can jump ship, again. You can swim away from the jaws of Tevinter one more time. No one will find you. No one will hunt you. You can go as far as you want.”

 Fenris stared at him, then, for a long time. A flurry of emotions scattered across his face, eventually settling into a frown, but not an angry one. _Concerned_ , Dorian thought, might be the best way to describe it, before Fenris looked away. “We’ve come this far. I wouldn’t abandon you now.”

 A chuckle broke free of Dorian’s mouth, and he cleared his throat to mask it, shaking his head. “Don’t get gallant on me now; it only makes me want you more.” His lips twitched upward, and when Fenris’ gaze landed on him again, some heavy emotion behind his eyes, Dorian inhaled, and his hands slid closer to the warrior’s throat.

 “This again,” Fenris said, though it was in little more than a rough sort of whisper, and as Dorian’s knuckles brushed over the collar of his tunic, he narrowed his eyes slightly. The mage huffed again, a brief smile stretching at his lips before another tip of the boat washed it away. The warrior’s brow furrowed, and Dorian realized a little belatedly that he’d leaned closer, while Fenris still had not moved away. ”Mage,” He whispered instead, his eyelids lowering, and Dorian swallowed. The warrior exhaled through his nose, looking for a moment as though he might lean in, but instead of doing so, Fenris half-stood, pressing his knee up into the cot beside Dorian’s thigh. His weight settled, and Dorian’s heart jumped into his throat as he looked up, spotting the dart of Fenris’ tongue out to drag against his lips before dipping around Dorian’s jaw to mutter in the mage's ear. “This will not help your predicament.”

Dorian inhaled, licked his lips, and found it hard to care.

 His fingers gripped at the tunic tucked under the elf’s armor, instead, and Fenris made a tiny, almost amused noise, shaking his head and pressing his hand flat against Dorians chest. He pushed, and Dorian went, easing back onto his elbows and lower, his eyes locked on the warrior’s. Fenris looked expectant, _waiting_ , one brow lifting while Dorian swallowed, and the sway of the ship had his stomach flipping. But then it was the elf, that _look_ , leaning in to exhale against the side of his throat, hands warm and firm and roaming so bewitchingly against his sides, the faint bite of the tips of his gauntlets through the fabric of his clothes.

 A pleasant fluttering settled in his belly –

 no.

 Unpleasant.

  _Definitely unpleasant._

 “-hurhg-“ Dorian tensed suddenly, and shoved Fenris up and off of him, leaving the warrior tumbling sideways on the cot while he stumbled up to rush-but-mostly-wobble over and fall to his knees on the floor, grabbing at the bucket that Fenris had brought in for him. He heaved, his head and stomach working against him, and while nothing came out, he heard Fenris’ quiet chuckle from the cot.

 “I told you that it would not help.”

 Watering, betrayed eyes shot the elf’s way. A single finger lifted in Fenris’ direction said all that he needed to say to the elf before the dip and sway of the ferry had him heaving again, hugging the bucket to his chest.

 Fenris remained where he was, one knee up, while Dorian finally lost the battle with his insides.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (It’s hard to keep up on reading when I just wanna write ALL THE THINGS, haha. Sorry all the time for my sporadic updating, but thank you all for reading! ♥♥♥ If you ever want to poke me with sticks (or hot irons, I guess, whatevs) hit me up on tumblr! I also have this bad habit of posting blurbs of future scenes that I get really excited about, or pieces of other ideas that I’ll start posting once they’re completed. :D erasergremlin.tumblr.com )


	18. Terra Firma*

“You are an _ass.”_

 Dorian had spent the majority of the remainder of the trip across the Waking Sea sweating, shaking, and heaving everything he tried to put into his stomach back out and into the bucket he'd been given. In fact, he was hunched over the damned thing for so long that his spine ached, and now that they were on solid ground - _blessed solid ground, he would never remove his feet from solid earth again for as long as he might live_ \- he had decidedly _not_ been looking forward to planting his arse back in a saddle for another lengthy period of time.

 Unfortunately, in the thick of the woods heading back toward the Imperial Highway to the North, that was _just_ what they'd done.

 Fenris chuckled, just barely audibly, from behind him. “What did I do?”

 “ _You know exactly what_ ,” Dorian bemoaned, and exhaled. He tightened his knees against the saddle, and shot a glare over his shoulder that, unavoidably, softened when he spotted the tilt of the warrior’s lips. Fenris had taken to poking fun at the mage at every opportunity in the privacy of that cabin, and while, when he was deathly ill, it had been annoying to the point of madness, now it was...

 Endearing was definitely the wrong word.

 With a sigh, he turned back forward, and continued picking his way through the dense foliage. He could practically _feel_ Fenris with his smug smirk riding behind him, the soft snorting of his gelding breaking the silence on occasion. The rich expanse of wood that made up the remainder of Orlais sprawled out before them, and Dorian wondered at that. Half-way. They had made it half the way to Tevinter. Another week or so, and they would be crossing balmy desert, golden plains, and then… _What_.

 Still, with no word from Leliana or _anyone_ on what to do next, Dorian was left with little else but to speculate. Without the nausea to keep his mind off of everything but ‘ _try not to vomit_ ’, he fell back into running through scenarios, through dialogue, through _everything_ about Tevinter that he’d spent the majority of his life ignoring or phasing out of his own general behavior. Fenris said nothing to his silence, and every so often, Dorian wondered what the elf must be thinking about. Which only had his mind wandering to how close he’d been just before seasickness took over, the breath on his throat, the hands on his sides – and how those thoughts were entirely inappropriate, when they spent the entire trip under the charade that Fenris was a _slave_.

 The worst part of it was, _that_ might very well be one part of Tevinter behavior that wouldn’t matter to him, if he truly was the man that he was to have to go about pretending to be.

 hey ambled along for another hour in silence, and the mage fell further and further into the darker pit of his thoughts, every _‘what if’_ and _‘but’_ making itself loud and ringing between his ears. When it got to the point that his fingernails nearly bit into the heels of his fists, his shoulders tensed and he sat up. “I’m hungry.” Dorian said suddenly, and Fenris gave a snort from behind him, but said nothing else. The mage turned again in his saddle, and lifted his brows. “It’ll be dark in a couple of hours. We can just get an early start on camp, and break it earlier tomorrow.” The warrior shrugged, cloak sinking into the motion. The gesture certainly wasn’t assent, but the Altus kept an eye out, eager to get off of the saddle and stretch his legs – and think of _anything else_.

 The lake he came across was a surprise, but certainly not an unwelcome one.

Still. Calm. Water.

 Dorian could practically already feel it on his skin, somewhere under the ruddy layer that covered him from head to toe. Fenris couldn't be any better. He heeled at his horse without a word, directing her toward the water, and he almost didn't look back to see if the elf had followed. From the distance of Fenris’ voice when he finally called out, he hadn’t.

 “-Where are you going?” It was not a shout, and wouldn’t be enough to draw attention in the thick of the woods, but with no one and nothing else around making a peep, Dorian heard it clearly.

 “To bathe.” He answered simply, and did not stop his horse’s loping pace.

“What – _mage_ , we don’t have time for -”

“Fenris. You don't understand. _I'm going to bathe._ ”

 It had been weeks. _Weeks_. Since properly bathing. Lake water was still not ideal, but it was the best they would see for who knew how much longer, and damn it all, he was going to take that chance.

 When he heard the click of Fenris’ tongue, the muttered curse, and the clink of his gelding chewing at the bit in his mouth, Dorian exhaled, glad he wouldn’t have to argue it further.   
The detour was a quick one. The edge of the lake was not wide, but it was enough that he’d be able to let his horse graze without letting her wander off too far, and he was already kicking off his boots even while his fingers fought with the girth of his mare’s saddle. He could _bathe_ , she could _roll_ , this was going to be the best day on solid ground _ever_. Fighting the buckles, they eventually gave way, and the horse have a great heave of breath, shaking her head with a rattling snort while he pulled the saddle off. He heard Fenris’ horse finally come to a standstill, and when he turned, the sour look on the elf’s face instantly doused his mood.

 “What.” He phrased it as carefully not-a-question as he could, and the elf rolled his tongue over his teeth.

 “We shouldn't be wasting time.” He said, and the mage groaned.

 “This is not wasting time. I am disgusting. You are disgusting. The horses are disgusting. A bath is as necessary for our sanity as it is for our goal. No one is going to believe I am a Tevinter mage worth his salt if I smell like two months’ worth of horse sweat and charred nug.” He watched as Fenris’ nose curled at the shot to his cooking, and while Dorian had admittedly started to get used to the taste of nug, he wasn't about to take it back. Stubbornly, he unclasped his cloak, meeting Fenris straight in the eye, and dropped it over his boots. “I'm bathing.” He said in what he hoped Fenris would accept for finality, and started undoing the buckles of his clothing. When the elf made a long, aggravated noise, but his boots hit the grass anyways, Dorian hid the quirk of his triumphant smile behind the collar of his shirt. He dunked every piece of clothing he stripped off in the water, sifting dust and scraps of vegetation from the fabrics and scrubbing the leathers with the heel of his hand, and laid everything out to dry on a long rock in what was left of the daylight.

 When he turned, it was to Fenris bent forward and away from him, working a greave off of his leg. Too eager to spend too long admiring the view, however, Dorian sidled past the elf, unmindful of his own nudity, to root through his pack attached to Fenris’ saddle. Fenris stood, looked at him, and scowled. “- _Venhedis_. What are you doing?” He muttered, stepping away, and was a little _too_ focused on removing his breastplate when Dorian turned again, offering up two handfuls of dried sea sponge.

 “Gathering necessary supplies. I'd offer oils but I figured those were a little over the top, and I don’t actually have any with me. Scrubbing, though. _Essential_.”

 Fenris continued scowling, placing his armor on the ground, and tentatively reached out for the offered sponge, but did not meet Dorian’s eyes, and his gaze fled from trailing up the mage’s arm. “...Fine.” He relented, and threw the thing closer to the edge of the lake. Dorian rolled his eyes, and nudged past him again to head for the water.

_Cold._

He danced on the spot with a rush of air as he stepped in, cursing through his teeth, but powered through until the water was up to his thighs, determined to get himself some semblance of clean. A shiver wracked through Dorian’s entire body, and he let the sponge soak before scrubbing it over an arm. He turned to spot Fenris scrubbing at his own clothes at the edge of the lake, and took a brief moment to appreciate the way the muscles under his skin moved with the motion, turning his eyes quickly away when Fenris looked up. He lowered himself further and tried to soak for a moment, just to get used to the chill of the water, and let out a brief chuckle when he heard Fenris hissing while he waded in. The elf was quicker to get it done and get out, though, and so by the time Dorian stood again, Fenris was nearly finished.

The water sloughed off his body in rivulets, and despite the chill, Dorian absolutely _revelled in it_. He scrubbed the filth off of every inch of his skin, practically groaning, and by the time he was dunking his head in the water to scrub at his hair, he noticed just how quiet the lake had gotten.

 Frowning, he straightened up, the water rippling around his thighs when he wasn't bent over and splashing about.

 He turned his eyes, and found Fenris looking at him, distracted, is hand caught on one shoulder in what might have once been mid motion - but seeing as there was no trickle of water from the sponge to speak of, that could have been minutes ago. Dorian slid his eyes away again, inhaling, his heart picking up in pace, thudding against his chest. There was the option to call the elf out on his careless peeking...

 But where was the fun in that?

 He straightened up again, angling his body toward the warrior and pressing the water from his scalp, eyes half closed and watching while Fenris tightened his grip on the already squeezed out sponge. He couldn't help the smile that curved at his lips, the breath of a chuckle escaping them before he brought his arms back down, scooping up more water to scrub lazily at his own shoulders.

 “Need a hand?” He teased, but not viciously. His brow lifted just slightly, the smirk curling at his lips, and the warrior was frozen, eyes snapping upward, _caught_ while Dorian was left waiting for flight, fight, or Fenris’ dick to take over on the response. The third certainly looked _interested_ , twitching and filling out, but the mage had a feeling that despite the warrior’s warnings and complaints, his lower brain didn't really do the decision making. “I could scrub your back,” He offered, quiet, almost hopeful, and cocked his hip slowly to the side, shrugging. “You could scrub mine. If you wanted to.”

 Fenris’ gaze snapped upward again, having followed the motion of his hips, and he inhaled suddenly, dropping the sponge into the water testily. His mouth opened, a reply on his lips, and the twist of his face had Dorian sighing, knowing it would be on edge and not anything he'd like hearing. Instead of words, though, Fenris only hissed incoherently and retreated from the water, leaving Dorian to watch as he stalked towards the branches he'd hung his clothing from, ripping the garments off and heading toward camp stark naked, growling the whole way.

With a sigh, he looked back to the water, and dunked under it again.

When Dorian wandered toward the fire, or what might have been a fire, if Fenris was not fighting with the flint, he weighed his options for a moment before flicking his fingers, pulling fire from the fade to light the branches that the elf had clustered together. Fenris had dressed, mostly; he tensed, back still to the mage, and took a long breath before dropping his shoulders. “... You are _maddening_.”

 “And you are very touch-and-go.” Dorian returned, finishing tying his pants before crossing his arms in front of him, fingers tapping idly at his elbows. His muscles tensed, but only slightly, when the warrior pushed himself up to his feet and turned to face him. “It's really rather ridiculous. Do you, or do you not, want me to pursue you? If I'm wasting my time, I'd really prefer if you told me so, instead of responding as though you might actually want me to.”

 “It is not... The right time.” Fenris said after cutting himself off, and Dorian thought he might be saying it to avoid another issue.

 “Is it the mission?”

 “It is... _Everything._ About this. About _you_. Does it not occur to you what you are? What _I am?”_ When Dorian opened his mouth, but did not reply, Fenris pinched his lips together and ran a hand through his hair, still dripping from the lake. Dorian’s gaze was pulled by one particular droplet grazing down along the elf’s jaw and throat, lower and lower over the scar of lyrium and soaking into the fabric of his tunic, thrown on and wet but left unfastened. There was more of the design to contemplate by the strip of flesh left visible down his chest, but Fenris’ voice was pulling his attention back upward. “This is not some carefree field trip. We will be scrutinized, every action, every word, every look. And you want to complicate that further?”

 Dorian had no answer. He could argue it, he could agree with it, but he did neither, only staring, and coming to uncertain terms with just _how_ complicated his life had gotten in less than a month. It was without a doubt that he wanted to – _Maker, did he ever want to –_ but it would be unavoidably messy, possibly disastrous, and _absolutely amazing_.

  _‘Well’,_ he thought with a tone that was too light for the avenue of his current thoughts. ‘ _I had been thinking Skyhold had gotten boring’_. Only fair that fate had decided to throw him upside down and shake him until he thought it was right side up.

 Still, Fenris was waiting for an answer, glaring and expectant, and Dorian inhaled, head rocking from one side to the other before he was letting out a rough noise and lifting his hands to comb his hair from his face. “It's not that I want complications. I just...” He hit a mental wall, his words disappearing just before reaching his tongue, and he lifted his fingers from his hair, leaving his hands hanging exasperatedly half a foot from his scalp. “I don't know. I just know that I can't get you out of my head, and I _want_...”

 “... And what is it about me, exactly, that you want, mage.”

 “That's exactly it, _Fenris_ , I do not know. You do little more than spend every waking moment aggravating me or finding something _about me_ to _find_ aggravating, and still, _still_ , I want nothing more than for you to let me bury my fingers into your skin and have you fuck me into _oblivion_.”

 Fenris stopped, looking startled at that answer, and Dorian took a second to be just as startled he’d _said_ it. It did not, however, change the fact that lately, he wanted exactly that. The elf’s mouth opened, shut, and fell open again, jaw twitching as if words were trying to get out and dying prematurely. Eventually, he settled for a muttered, hissing string of incoherent curses, stalking closer, and Dorian’s breath hitched when he was seized by the elbows and _shoved_ back, stumbling, grasping onto the elf for support until he was pressed up against the thick trunk of an oak. The warrior growled, and Dorian swallowed to the wash of Fenris’ breath across his jaw. “You…” He growled again, his breath shuddering before he was tipping forward and capturing the mage’s mouth under his own. Dorian was halfway groaning before he caught himself, shaking his arms free from Fenris’ grasp to shoot upwards, cupping the back of the warrior’s skull and tilting his head, returning the kiss with an almost uncharacteristic sort of viciousness.

  _This_.

  _He wanted exactly this_.

 He couldn’t get Fenris’ voice, his fingers, his mouth out of his thoughts, and it left him stuck somewhere between aroused and terrified. He shouldn’t _want_ it, and he _did,_ despite the danger, and that had to mean something but Dorian refused to follow that path of thought. He could settle for something carnal. Teeth grazed and bit at his mouth. Fenris hissed as he pulled away nearly far enough to speak, eyelids drifting shut to Dorian’s fingers roving up through his hair, and then snapping open again, his breath sharp against Dorian’s skin. The warrior’s voice was rushed, almost desperate. “This cannot keep happening.”

 “Who says?” Dorian whispered back, lost, _drunk_ on the elf and that wicked mouth, and Fenris’ lips parted, his tongue darting between them before he was sighing, pressing forward against Dorian’s lips another time with a more careful desperation. His hands slid over the mage’s shoulders, up and tangling into unruly, unbrushed and still lake-damp hair, and Dorian took the opportunity to map out the planes of muscle he could feel through Fenris’ damp tunic; the ridge of his shoulder blade, the sculpt of bone down along his spine. Their bodies pressed and shifted, and the lines of lyrium scattered across his flesh, the lines in his fingers roving over his scalp, left Dorian’s skin tingling, his breath short. When Fenris pulled back again, Dorian pulled him closer, resting his forehead against the warrior’s own, and Fenris exhaled, tipping his head against the gesture, his fingers gripping at the mage’s hair before untangling and falling away.

 “I do.” He said after a beat, their sighs intermingling, and Dorian’s hands paused.

 He gripped, absently for just a moment at Fenris’ tunic, and then heaved out a longer, heavy and aggravated breath, disappointment slamming into him like a rush of freezing water. He wanted to hang on. He wanted _this_ , but, shutting his eyes and clenching his jaw, he willed his knuckles to loosen, and slumped his weight against the tree behind him, his arms falling to his sides.

 Fenris remained where he was for another minute, his head still tipped downward, looking as though he might have more to say, and then he was stepping back, fingers flexing, and with a shake of his head, he moved back toward the fire. The mage lifted his head to watch him go, and groaned, letting his skull fall back against the tree with a solid _thunk_. Fenris crouched, throwing more deadfall onto the dying pile of kindling, and bent forward to coax it back to life.

 Dorian stared for a while at the brands on Fenris’ forearms, now that he had the chance without the gauntlets in the way and his attention otherwise occupied. It reminded him of the Inquisitors’ vallaslin, but the he supposed that was the point, unless there was some sort of magical or anatomical theory behind it, but then _that_ was a curious thought. When Fenris caught him looking, Dorian tore his gaze away, and made himself busy unloading what they would need to set up camp. Their tack and gear was still piled by the lake, but Fenris had not set up the fire much farther in, and so he could still hear the crackle of the branches, the glow of it turning the evening light orange while he fought with the buckles strapping his tent to Fenris’ saddle. He chewed at the inside of his cheek, brows furrowed, thoughts wandering as far as he could let them from the scratches he could feel on his spine from the oak, and didn't hear the elf advance until hands were on his shoulders, pulling him off balance and onto his back while Fenris swung around, pinning his knees neatly on either side of the mage's hips. Dorian landed on his back, on top of his piled travelling cloak with a rush of air and a grunt, left staring up at Fenris while he was scrutinized and his buried boots dug into his calf.

 “Wha...” He breathed, gulping, and when Fenris leaned closer, his breath left him.

 “You. Are. Maddening.” Fenris said again, a darker echo than the admittance before. Dorian stared, unable to breathe while Fenris bore into him with those eyes, green and gold, laced with the glow that came from the fading light. “You push and push, and do not _take_ \- I don't know what to _do_ with you.”

 Finally, _finally,_ Dorian found his tongue. “Anything.” He practically gasped, too eager to answer, fingers flexing, itching to touch and yet still unsure. “Just about anything,” He breathed again, his heart in his throat. “Just... Enough with the mixed signals,” he pleaded, and licked his lips, fingertips brushing against Fenris’ knees. “I don't think I can take much more of them.”

 Fenris exhaled to the admission, watching him for another moment. “What do you want.” He whispered, and shuffled back, away from Dorian’s fingers, leaving the mage cursing under his breath until Fenris put a hand on either side of his head.

“This.” He answered, entranced, echoing an errant former thought. Fenris narrowed his eyes, and bent closer.

 “This?” Fenris kept his voice low, stretching out over the mage, brows furrowed. “This is what you want of me?”

  _‘And so much more_ ,’ Dorian wanted to say, but stumbled over the words. He faltered. This was unknown territory. This way lead to danger. Admissions like the one Fenris seemed to be asking for were never said out loud, they were used against you to hurt and blackmail and – and he _wanted_ this man so badly.

 “ _Yes_ ,” he hissed, before he lost his nerve. Fenris’ brow twisted further, a question without a voice, and Dorian’s throat caught the breath that wanted to escape, holding onto it like it was his last. But his face must have told the elf _some_ sort of further answer, and while he did not look _happy_ , he still heaved out a breath and dipped his face forward to brush that exhale against Dorian’s jaw. He said no more, and Dorian’s breath hitched sharply to Fenris’ hands on his skin, the sound muffled by Fenris’ mouth closing again over his own.

 When Fenris wrapped his fingers around his wrists, easing them upward, Dorian thought little of it. He was too preoccupied with the way Fenris felt against him, shifting his weight, his hip bones pressing into Dorians own, his mouth pressing down along the mage's jaw and throat. Dorian pulled at his wrists eventually, but Fenris held them fast, cutting off his opportunity to grab handfuls of the warrior, to divest him of his tunic, to pull his mouth back against his own and grip at any part of him he could reach. His fidgeting turned more desperate, but Fenris kept him pinned, leaving the mage’s wrists above his head while he ground his hips downward. Dorian could feel his length pressing, swelling, and could do little but muffle a moan while his own responded in kind. The pressure of his clothing, the barrier of it between them - he wanted it gone, and Fenris didn't seem to want to do anything about it. “ _Fenris_ -”

 The warrior growled over his whispered plea, and it only made Dorian’s cock twitch. “If you’d rather I stop-”

 “ _Maker_ , no,” Dorian gasped, and planted a foot against the ground to push his hips upward. “Don’t stop. _Don’t you dare_.”

 The mage almost whined, but it broke into a jagged breath when Fenris wrangled both of his wrists into one hand, and reached between them to grab his jaw, turning the Altus toward him. “Then shut _up_.” He hissed, and Dorian inhaled, rutting upward. Fenris used that free hand to grab Dorian’s knee, pulling it closer and gripping at his thigh momentarily before shoving it back down, removing Dorian’s point of leverage. He dragged his body against Dorian’s own again, torturously slowly, and he couldn't help it; his entire body twitched and tried to wrap itself around the warrior. Fenris hissed and pressed his leg down again. The Altus’ eyes slid shut with a low noise when Fenris rolled his hips another time, slow and deliberate and _so enticingly_ , breath hot against his bare collarbone, and thought started to slip away, replaced with _want_ and _need_ and a thousand greedy things, leaving Fenris growling and their bodies grinding urgently against one another to achieve an end.

 They moved together frantically, Dorian swearing on the regular at the friction, and his fingers twitched, wishing he could grab at the warrior, dig his fingers into his hair, his arms, his ass – _anything_ , but Fenris was not letting up. The warrior held his arms up over his head for long enough that Dorian eventually gave up on fighting, throwing all of his focus at simply _getting off_. The breath against his ear was hot and ragged, the sounds Fenris would make on occasion were _amazing_ , but whenever he turned his head to catch the elf’s mouth, Fenris would rear his head up and out of reach, and all Dorian could manage was scraping his lips or teeth against his neck once or twice, earning him a few groans and glares.

 So close, _so close –_

 Fenris shuddered above him with a broken, choked noise and Dorian moaned while his body went rigid, pressing his own hips up desperately, eager to find the same release. He panted, tilting his head up, and Fenris’ grip went slack, but before Dorian could grab at him, the elf lifted himself to all fours, and moved off of the mage. “Wh - _Fenris._ ” He breathed in a rush, and when all the warrior did was drop down at his side, rolling to turn his back to him, Dorian swore at him under his breath. “-Wait, I’m not...” He exhaled, trailing off, and stared in bewilderment at the elf’s stiff shoulders.

 Fenris made no move to roll back over to look at him, and so Dorian only swore at him again, fingers suddenly fumbling at the fastening of his pants. His erection _ached,_ from the intense rubbing and the weight pressed against him, and the sudden blow to his arousal from Fenris’ callousness left him with his pants halfway undone, stubborn fingers tucked inside to jerk off quickly and with little finesse. He came with a grunt, his body letting loose a series of twitching muscles, and he settled his weight into the uneven ground with a great heave of a sigh.

 “You are an _asshole_.”

 Fenris remained silent and resolute, though Dorian watched his breath quicken slightly with the rise and fall of his shoulder, and exhaled again in aggravation. He sat up to scrounge in his pack for a spare cloth, and wiped himself off with a string of muttered curses before dropping back again, the sound of his body hitting the dirt loud to his own ears.

 He lay back, exhaling, _angry,_ and when Fenris said nothing, _absolutely nothing,_ his pitched breathing not evening out, the tension of his body not abating, Dorian felt the rage drain away and into confusion. Into helplessness.

 “ _Asshole_.” He hissed again, and Fenris exhaled, his breath shaky and stuttered as it left him. The elf sat up, entire body tense, but before he could retreat, Dorian caught his wrist, holding on when the elf went to wrench it out of his grasp. “ _Fenris._ ” He hissed, and stared into the light refracted from Fenris’ irises when they flashed towards him, clenching his teeth. They sat in silence for a breath, two, and when Fenris went to pull away with less urgency, Dorian let him. Lyrium-branded fingers scrubbed over the elf’s face while he pulled a knee up, and Dorian exhaled, dropping his head back again, shifting from the rock he could feel digging into his rib.

 He thought for a moment to say something else, to reach for him, to ask for an explanation, but didn't, in the end, instead spending a number of minutes staring at the dark sky above them and what he could see of the dim stars through the canopy of the woods.

 He'd pushed, and gotten exactly what he'd wanted, hadn't he?

 So why did he not feel in the least bit satisfied? The pang of want, now that he'd gotten so close and been denied at the last second, was stronger than ever. What in the _flames_ had he been hoping for? _For it to mean something?_

  _Foolishness_ , he decided bitterly. One more time, wanting something he couldn’t have. He felt like a spoiled child. But at the same time, he felt… _Used_.

 He opened his eyes when Fenris released a sharp exhale, and he watched through the dark while the elf pushed himself to his feet. The elf swore, just barely and so far under his breath that Dorian would have missed it, if he’d been making any noise at all, and he watched when Fenris walked away, and then back again, and off the other way, pacing erratically to the point that Dorian was left bewildered, catching his breath and staring, easing himself up onto his elbows. “Fenris.” He said eventually, soft and careful, and Fenris’ pacing slowed, his brands dim but glimmering, and the stubborn look he shot Dorian’s way left the mage without a proper response.

 Fenris _looked_ …

 Well, he looked disastrously similar to how Dorian _felt_.

 The warrior turned, and the moment broke. Dorian was angry, again, and defensive and that had been a _dick move_ and Dorian was not about to forgive him for it. He glared at Fenris’ back while it was turned to him, elbows out and the mage figured he was finishing dressing, crouching in front of their gear and then disappearing off into the trees. Sighing, the Altus dropped his head back, and went back to staring at the sky and listening to the horses while they grazed lazily before it was time to sleep.

 A shadow passed through his vision, and Fenris was back, crouching and settling beside him on the pile that was their travelling cloaks, too thin to be comfortable and certainly not the greatest bed when there were camping rolls for that, and tents, and gear that made sleeping in the wilderness _bearable_ -

 Dorian reeled. “What’re you – I can set up the tents, if you’re simply too lazy –“

 “Fuck the tents.” Fenris grumbled, and shifted, unrumpling one of their cloaks from under him instead to toss over the both of them. Dorian grunted when he was pulled in closer, more tightly against the elf’s body, and he tensed, debating crashing an elbow into Fenris’ ribs.

 But the night was cooling off, and Fenris was _warm_. The fingers around his bicep were tight, strained, and shaking. He heard Fenris inhale and hold it, waiting. Dorian noticed after that, that he’d been holding his own breath as soon as Fenris had touched him. It came out shakily, and Dorian curled his fingers, letting a deep breath into his lungs. Counting.

 “I’m still _fucking_ angry with you.” He said shortly. Fenris was silent for a while before a rush of breath fanned out over Dorian’s still bare shoulder.

 “I know.”

 Dorian stared out into the dark, his hands in fists. “You deserve it.”

 “I know.” Fenris said again, a bird with only one phrase, and Dorian huffed, jaw twitching. His body shifted, thighs pressing against the back of Dorian’s own, the bridge of his nose lining up with his spine at the nape of his neck and staying there.

 The tension in his muscles slackened all at once, and with his breath lodged in his throat, Dorian barely managed one more whisper. “I deserved it, too.”

 He felt Fenris’ lips move, just barely brushing against his skin, but his breath shuddered, and fell still. Instead of voicing the words Dorian could already hear as an echo, Fenris pulled the mage more tightly against him. Dorian shut his eyes, and relented.

 Sleep did not come easily, but judging by the tenseness of the arm around him and the hitch of breath against his shoulder every so often, Dorian did not think Fenris had any easier of a night. He knew they could solve this easily; a few words, an argument, explanations and _proper communication_ – but every sentence got caught in Dorian’s throat, stuck from a lifetime of never laying everything out at once. You didn’t lay your heart out on your sleeve. Not unless you wanted it ruined.

 Tevinter had taught him that.


	19. Nightmare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (( WARNING: A horse is injured and put down in this chapter... Pretty graphically. Ssssso gore warning? Gore warning. As for my fellow horse nerds … I’m so sorry. Stop reading at the ✵✵✵ to avoid the scene! I won’t put any overly important information in there, but it does lead to dialogue later. ))

Dorian woke gasping for air, pure cold _dread_ in the pit of his belly and his pulse racing from a night terror that fled from memory as soon as he’d opened his eyes despite his attempts to grasp at the threads of it. He did not get them often, but something about _this_ one had an uneasy feeling continuing to curl in his gut, a chill settling into his shoulders despite the warm morning.

 He groaned and moved to get up, feeling heavy to the point of suffocation, and the arm around his middle tightened, startling the mage. Fenris made a noise from behind him, stirring, and Dorian held his breath, waiting for the warrior to roll back and remove his arm. It wasn't the first time they'd slept in close proximity, or woken up in such a way, but that was _before_ and now everything felt irreversibly changed. It wasn’t even that sex was now involved – it had been from the start. This was... This was different.

 Fenris’ arm slid away, and Dorian hesitated despite the heaviness in his lungs, waiting for the elf to sit up and move away first.

 The lake they’d settled by was fed by a stream; they could drink and refill their flasks easily enough while watering the horses, but Dorian kept his eyes turned from the lake itself as they went about their morning, away from the spot their saddles were still piled up in, the rumpled pile that had been their bed for the night. The elf returned from the stream a few minutes after Dorian did, rubbing his hair dry, and joined him to crouch across the dead dugout that had been their small fire pit, wrapped rations held loosely in one hand. Without the time to set aside to hunt – and with Dorian not being in the mood to, while it seemed Fenris wasn’t, either – rations would have to do. The bread had become stale, but it filled his belly, and they shared the last of the dried fruit he had in his pack.

 Dorian’s hunger gnawed at him faintly still, but he stopped eating all the same, packing his food away again, and while Fenris ate more slowly, they sat in prolonged silence as the morning brightened.

 “Are you still angry with me?” He said eventually, and Fenris stopped chewing to look up at him, having apparently been lost in his own thoughts. Dorian only watched him in return, waiting. It wasn’t overly difficult to deduce that Fenris’ behavior the night before, at _some_ level, had been because of Dorian’s answer. Lack of answer. Bad communication.

 One could call it a lot of things.

 It made him no less angry with _Fenris_ , to be certain, but knowing if he was at least beginning to grasp the elf’s thinking process would be nice. Fenris had asked again and again what Dorian wanted. Dorian, creature of habit that he was turning out to be, had never done the same, even if he wanted to. Fenris still stared at him, his chewing starting back up, slowly and very deliberately, holding off on his answer.

 When it came, Dorian had almost given up. “…No.” He said, and looked at his meal, tongue between his teeth before he was swallowing and sitting back with a long breath. “I… Perhaps I shouldn’t have been angry with you in the first place.”

  _Why_ , Dorian’s mind crowed, _ask why_. But his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, and all he could do was watch while the warrior shifted uncomfortably, and moved to stand again, stuffing the last of his stale portion into his mouth. Fenris had a right to be angry. All Dorian could bring himself to admit was that he wanted Fenris physically, and of _course_ he'd feel used; Dorian had given him nothing to imply that he was doing anything else.

 It couldn't happen again.

 When Fenris was gone, Dorian sat a while longer, staring absently at the space the warrior had been occupying. There were still so many unknowns. He wasn’t even sure entirely what to expect from the man he was travelling with; grumpiness in nearly equal shares with sarcastic retorts, a skilled swordsman, but also a ticking time bomb. He’d known men like Fenris, with short tempers and shorter patience, and Dorian knew he could be a little arrogant at times. He could be more careful, but even he knew it would only be a matter of time before he slipped – and then the elf would explode.

 With a great sigh, he pushed himself to his feet and set about packing, grabbing the rest of his clothes from the rock they’d dried on overnight. The horses snorted loudly when he passed them by, and eventually gave up on him, chewing away at the grass about their feet. He dressed, pulled his boots on, and while his clothes smelled like lake, it was better than smelling like sweat and grime, but all the same, he could scarcely wait for the chance to wear fresh clothes. Fenris was pulling his armor on when Dorian looked his way, and without saying it, possibly without needing to, they prepared to leave.

 Tacking up and pulling themselves onto their horses in a sort of uncomfortable silence, with Dorian lost in his own head and Fenris stubbornly pretending that this was a day the same as any other, when one of them finally spoke, they’d been riding long enough that the sun sat directly above them.

 “You’ve been quiet,” Fenris said, and Dorian pulled himself from his thoughts to turn his head. The warrior wasn’t even looking at him; the elf had begun to make a habit of riding behind him, with their things still strapped to his horse, and while it made the mage a little uncomfortable, he could not deny that if they ran into Venatori sooner than expected, it would be a strange thing for his proposed slave to be riding beside him.

 “Lost in thought.” He replied, lips quirking.

 “Don't hurt yourself.” The warrior said almost automatically, and caught off guard, the Altus turned his head a little farther.

 Dorian couldn't help but stare. While he’d perfected the art of turning casual sexual encounters into exactly that or less, being on the receiving end of such a deflection after a night spent rutting against another man wasn't a familiar experience. _He_ was the one who did the deflecting. It was a protection. But Fenris seemed to know how to play the game, and for his part, was putting Dorian to shame. He took another second to crack a smile, but his heart wasn't in it, and he noticed Fenris’ eyes linger on him a moment too long before he was turning away. What was Dorian hanging on to? If _Fenris_ could dismiss and ignore whatever last night had been, Dorian very well could.

 He had to stop thinking with his dick or his heart or whatever had been running amuck and ruining his life for the past weeks, and _focus_.

 Fenris heeled at his gelding, and the ringing of his saddle and the gear latched onto it grew closer, until the warrior’s horse was only a half-length behind and alongside him. “Yes, well.” Dorian said, straightening his shoulders. When Fenris glanced at him again, he let his own gaze slide away. “One of us has to be the brains, right? That's the saying?”

 Fenris blinked, and relaxed in his seat with a twitch of his mouth. “If that is the case... We're doomed.”

 Dorian shot up, straight as an arrow, and glared back at him. “ _Really_?” He seethed, and Fenris’ mouth twitched again, the darkness under his eyes less visible while his features rebelled from stoicism.

 The warrior snorted, and it broke into a low chuckle before he let his horse fall further behind again. “You're making it too easy, mage. I can barely help it.”

 The Altus kept staring, turning in his saddle to follow Fenris as he fell behind, and wondered for a forbidden moment if this was Fenris the player of the game - or if the tilt of his mouth was real, and picking on him really just brought the elf joy. A more hopeful, irrational part of him whispered that perhaps, just perhaps, Fenris was trying to smooth over their relationship with his usual caustic humor and sharp tongue, the wit he’d been so entranced with in the first place, but it was drowned out before it had a chance to take hold. His mouth opened, the question on is lips, and his brain said _focus_ , again, so he turned away, letting the curiosity wither away.

 “…Are _you_ angry with _me?_ ” The warrior’s voice was the first to break the silence a second time, further and further from the lake, when Dorian could see the highway in the late afternoon light.

 The question had him holding his breath, hands tight on his mare’s reins, and Dorian clenched his teeth, turning his head to take in Fenris’ expression another time. “Why would I be?”

 “You know why.”

 “I know why I was last night,” Dorian said, fidgeting, and he pushed his breath out between his lips, lifting a hand to brush his hair back over his scalp. “But… With more time to think about it – enough time for me to pull my head out of my own ass, at any rate – I… I realize that I’m just as much to blame for what happened as you are. It shouldn’t – it _didn’t_ mean anything.” He corrected himself quickly before turning his eyes, and found Fenris watching him, a curious furrow to his brow that Dorian couldn’t look at for long. _Focus_. “I apologize. Now, are we going to keep bringing it up? I was under the impression that you had better things to do. Like harass me when I’m trying to come up with a _plan_.”

 Still, the elf stared at him, and Dorian turned forward again.

 It was almost evening when the elf had another chance to make a dig at him, and by then, Dorian had enough in him to manage a short, only _mostly_ forced laugh.

 

✵✵✵

 

The final stretch between Orlais and Nevarra was littered with small rivers and steep banks, leaving them to crossing rickety wood and shoddy stonework that felt like little more than half-rotted planks and shifting pebbles under his mare’s hooves. If they wanted to remain close to the highway without being seen, though, the dilapidated, forgotten bridges of wood and stone were their only option. They stopped for camp only briefly, never for a full night, and both Dorian and Fenris had taken an apparent and keen interest in actually maintaining watch, never sleeping at the same time, and so never presenting themselves with any further opportunity to… Lose focus.

 Again.

  _“This? We’re crossing this?”_

 The stone of their most recent bridge was practically falling apart near the end, a part of it crumbling away on the far side. The mage scooted forward in his saddle and looked over the edge: a drop of at least twenty feet, the dried out mud bank that might have once been a river a bleak, dark stain below. “... I have a bad feeling.”

 Fenris made a low noise behind him, and heeled his horse a little closer. His gelding snorted at the edge, backing up a step, and the elf allowed it. “The bridge is sound enough. Simply stay to the right.” He locked eyes with Dorian when the mage turned, and quirked a brow when Dorian made no move to get closer to the bridge. “If you're scared, I can go first.”

 The goading was not subtle.

 If anything, Fenris’ goading over the last few days had become more and more blunt, until each time that Fenris took a shot at him, it was like being hit with a shovel. If Dorian was not making a point to react as little as possible, he might think that Fenris was keeping at it only because he was desperate for a reaction. Dorian stared, and a second dark brow joined the first higher on Fenris’ forehead, the warrior’s lips twitching. The Altus sat up, and sniffed. “If you're trying to goad me into going as a point of pride, you'll be disappointed to find I value my limbs over shows of bravado.”

Fenris answered with a snort and a shrug of his shoulders, but his fingers tightened on his reins. “Then I suppose I will go first,” He said simply, and heeled his gelding in the sides. Even the beast snorted in discontent, perfectly aware of the dangers the bridge presented, but it moved obediently after shaking itself. Dorian gripped at his reins, not daring to step foot into the structure until the elf was safely across. When Fenris crossed the threshold on the other side, turning his horse and lifting his eyes expectantly, Dorian twisted his mouth, his moustache tangling with the growing whiskers along the sides of his mouth.

 He still hadn’t had a proper chance to shave, and it had _not_ helped his mood.

He urged his horse onto the bridge, licking his lips as he went. He could practically _hear_ stones crumbling out from under it, and tightened his grip on the reins. The mare keened quietly, voicing her discomfort and snorting pointedly, but Dorian kept his eyes on Fenris, pushing her forward.

 Halfway across, the flat slab that the mare put her foot on gave way as soon as she transferred her weight.

 Everything seemed to happen at once. The stone fell away into nothing, and the sick feeling of the freefall barely had time to kick in before Dorian was shouting, the horse was screaming, and the sound echoing through the ravine was that of a rockslide mingled with the _thock_ and _crack_ of flesh and bone.

 There was no time to think, and then _pain_.

 Dorian did not hit the bottom. He landed on an outcropping close enough that his teeth jarred with the impact, and he thought for a moment he'd bitten off his tongue, but it was still whole, intact, while his jaw felt like it was on _fire._

 His limbs were tangled, but he could still feel his extremities, and at least there was that, he thought amidst the cloud of shock and adrenaline and _white hot nothing-and-everything_. “Dorian!” He heard over the wash of rocks scattering past him and thud and tumble of flesh on stone, the sick-sad thump and squish of his mount falling to the bottom of the ravine. He could _feel_ his arm shift and click out of place when he rolled over, and swore, _loudly_ , which only set the fire in his jaw to new heights of painful intensity. The horse, at least, had stopped screaming. Dorian hoped past his own pain that it was not only shock keeping it silenced; that mercy had a hand in it all, and the beast had broken its neck. A new, smaller shower of rocks skittered past him, and then there were feet, knees - Fenris’ fingers, tentative on his throat.

 Fenris’ voice was a string of a curse, over and over and over in a rush of sound, his fingers shaking while he tried to find Dorian’s racing pulse.

 “Not dead,” Dorian managed to hiss, wheezing, and he finished rolling over with another sharp spike of pain that wrenched a sob from his throat. Fenris swore softly in response, and Dorian heaved half a laugh at it before the elf was digging around for something at his belt, and he heard the topper of a flask being popped off.

 “Drink,” Fenris said before pouring the red potion down his throat, and the mage sputtered, but obeyed, ending up coughing a bit of it back up when his throat closed at the bitter taste of elfroot. It started its work quickly enough, however, and Dorian exhaled as his muscles started knitting themselves back together. From the state of him, he’d wager he needed another two of those to feel something close to normal. The warrior helped him to his knees, and Dorian’s eyes fell downward, further into the ravine.

 His gut wrenched at the sight.

 The mare lay at the bottom, her twisted body convulsing as though trying to remember how to _move._ She twitched, shuddered, and the shock must have worn off, because then she was _screaming_. Dorian shut his eyes to the noise, his stomach twisting, and he struggled to move, the grind and pop of his shoulder doing nothing to help the effort.

 “Mend it.” Fenris spoke shortly, impatience sharp on his tongue. Dorian could guess at why. The man was a mage; there was no time for this. The Altus turned to stare at him, opened his mouth, and then turned away with a sharp breath.

 “I - I can’t,” Dorian stuttered, the admission difficult – and not only physically, with his jaw still pulsing and searing all at the same time. He winced as his horse keened again, its ruined leg shuddering out of tandem with its other limbs. He could barely hear Fenris growl over the sound.

  _“Then end it, you pompous-”_ The elf was already moving to slide off the ledge to finish the drop into the ravine, reaching to unlatch his sword. Dorian’s heart quickened at the thought of all the blood – he interrupted Fenris’ approach to the edge with a quick, jagged motion of his arms, and a hissed apology as heat left his palms.

 With the horse already so wounded, it took only a fraction of a second for it to perish, but Dorian let the flames consume what they would for a minute, two, just to be _sure_. Without turning away from the fire, even to see if Fenris was still there beside him, he was so silent - Dorian closed his good fist, having let his torn arm drop to his side, and the flames went out. The smell of singed hair and seared flesh prickled at his nostrils, but it was better than the rolling of his stomach if the sword were to have...

 Fenris’ horse snorted roughly from above them, startling Dorian out of his thoughts. He turned his head upward to find it pacing, his head swinging over the edge of the ravine with keening whinnies and frantic pawing, sending intermittent showers of pebbles down upon them. “Mage,” The elf’s voice startled him, even though Fenris hadn’t left his side after all, and Dorian turned his eyes back down to his own level. The warrior glanced up to his horse, and exhaled. “Can you move?”

 Dorian watched him, lips parting, his pulse throbbing in his ears. The smell of burnt flesh and hair sat in his nostrils, and he fought the urge to heave. “Yeah,” He said, since it was the only thing he _could_ say without moving his jaw, and when Fenris reached for him, hands pressing on bruising ribs and shredded muscles, he tried not to scream.

 The ascent was not going to be easy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thanks for reading! Sorry the exposition is so slow-going, but we’re almost there! TEVINTER IS WITHIN OUR GRASP. After a little more drama. And more action. Let's face it there's more of everything. Thank you for bearing with me! Comments give me liiiiiiife!


	20. Make Do

In the end, Fenris had spent the majority of the climb dragging the mage up beside him, with Dorian’s uncooperative arm doing its best to send him down to join his horse. They made it, at any rate, however painfully long it had taken, and Dorian was in no short amount grateful for Fenris’ apparent patience in helping him up; he’d probably had never made it on his own. His legs felt like liquid, but he managed to keep himself upright, even while his eyes dropped again to the ravine, the charred corpse at the bottom, and vertigo began to pull him back in before he managed to pull himself a few steps farther from the ledge.

Adrenaline was still rushing through his veins, muddying his thought processes, and he reached for the throbbing in his jaw with his bad arm without thinking. A spike of pain had him hissing and dropping his arm hurriedly, which only made the pain worse at the jolt of the muscle. Fenris had turned to him, mouth open as though he had a few choice words, but the sharp, pained sound out of Dorian’s throat had him stopping, and he gave the mage a brief once-over before grunting. “Come here.” He said, and Dorian blinked at him, brows furrowing.

He hesitated.

The warrior clenched his jaw, and moved closer instead. “Let me see.” He said quietly, almost gently, his fingers reaching up to Dorian’s face tentatively, and the uncharacteristic demeanor threw the Altus for a loop. Dorian inhaled, dropped his shoulders, and let him.

There was a curious tension in the warrior’s fingers in the way they traced Dorian’s skin, and the mage winced, but as soon as he tried to relax, the elf’s fingers dug in – _crack,_ the sound and a lance of pain straight through his skull, and Dorian was screaming between his teeth, reeling back. He went to hit the elf, _violently_ , but Fenris caught his first fist, and grunted to the second as it landed a blow against his arm. Pain soared through Dorian’s shoulder and down to his elbow from the impact, spurring him to throw his weight backward and clasp his other hand around his injured shoulder. “ _Kaffas_ ,” He hissed, and his jaw still hurt too much to open it for the ability to say more, but the clench of his teeth from the pain had him hurting anyways, so he shot a glare in Fenris’ direction, near betrayal in his eyes.

“It needed resetting.” Fenris said, as if that excused him. Dorian had a number of profanities to spew his way, but he didn’t think he’d be able to stomach the movement of his face it would require. The elf stood, eyes narrowed critically, and when all Dorian did was huff and release his shoulder to nurse the fire in his jaw with the coolness of his left palm, he lowered his eyes to Dorian’s arm, and gestured to it with a frown and an exhale. “Your shoulder is probably dislocated, as well. I can leave it for now, if you can't handle the pain, but if it is truly broken, that will hinder your ability to heal properly. Or you can heal it yourself.”

Dorian let out a noise that was as much a whimper as a shout, and stared at the elf in dismay. His breathing hitched when Fenris cocked a brow upward, but in the end, he exhaled, aching, and relented. Fenris helped him right his clothing, examining the joint of his shoulder before shoving it back into place. Miraculously, that hurt less than his jaw, though it was still acute enough to wrench another noise from his throat, and shot searing, tingling pain through his shoulder and collarbone down to his fingertips.

“You really are shit at healing,” Fenris said offhandedly as he was releasing the mage’s arm, as though it came as more of a surprise than it should have. Dorian flustered, shooting him another glare. He wondered for a moment if Fenris knew just how much pain he was in, and was getting as many sardonic comments in as he could while Dorian had no mouth with which to retaliate.

 _Oh_ , and if Fenris thought he’d be off the hook by the time he could speak normally - but for the moment, his pride was at stake. Even if his healing skill was really, transparently below par for even his usual standards. The Inquisitor had simply had enough health potions stocked for their travels, and rarely any lyrium potions, so he’d grown far more used to the convenience of downing a tonic and setting everything on fire rather than using that precious mana to heal anything that wasn’t life-threatening. Just as if to prove Fenris wrong for now, though, he sent magic coursing through his own system to fix what he knew how.

Which… Was not as much as he might like.

He managed to knit a few more muscles together, and the throbbing in his jaw lessened to an ache, but he couldn’t do much for the bruises that would be littering his body once they swelled up to the surface, and the mending of his joints would need time. He'd live, but really, he hadn’t fixed much more than Fenris had already done. The elf lifted a brow as though he could feel the pull of Dorian’s power fading, with little tangible difference, and Dorian clenched his jaw hard enough to make it throb all over again.

The elf’s brow did not lower, but his mouth twitched, and he turned to retrieve his horse. The gelding hadn’t wandered far, though as he lead it back towards Dorian it shuffled back and forth, obviously uncomfortable being brought closer to the edge that had claimed its travelling companion. When he managed to calm it enough to stand still, he rounded its side and hauled himself up into his saddle. Dorian watched him, and then glanced over his shoulder again, his eyes falling down past the edge.

“It doesn’t matter,” The elf said a little sharply when Dorian took too long to pull his gaze from the ravine, fighting with his own reins and watching the muddy road. He allowed the horse to back up a number of steps, enough to settle it, and flicked hair out of his eyes in agitation. “Mage. We will find another horse in the next town over, just-”

“No,” His voice was sharp, and the elf quieted, turning to him curiously, but Dorian couldn’t look up. Another huff of breath, and Dorian steeled himself. “No, this... Can work to our advantage.” He licked his lips, and set his hand forward, concentrating.

The sudden, heavy silence behind him was palpable.

The fade twitched beyond his fingers, and dark magic curled its tendrils into the air. Fenris’ horse whinnied and shied backward, ignoring his heels digging into its ribs, while wisps of magic the color of old bruises slid from Dorian’s fingers and toward the broken body of the animal to wrap around it and settle into it’s charred skin. Dorian’s shoulders were stiff, he stood dead-still, and with the elf’s continued silence it was as though the both of them were holding their breath.

When it shuddered, _inhaled_ , Dorian thought he heard Fenris swear in a whisper.

The horse - rather, what was once a horse - let out an unearthly groan, twitching and rolling, ruined legs pushing its body upward. As it did, chunks of charred flesh slid off of the beast grotesquely, revealing patches of muscle and bone.

It shook its head, shaking off a few more pieces of it’s former self, snorted, and without direction took the other side of the bank upwards, movements shuddering and uneasy, but it was the shallower incline toward the source of Dorian’s power, the pull of the fade at his fingertips. It crossed the broken bridge with surer steps than the living thing had, stopping a hair’s breadth from the ledge of the other side to regard the pair of men and Fenris’ startled, shrieking horse. Dorian glanced over his shoulder to find Fenris’ markings pulsing faintly across his arms, his eyes glued to the creature, and he hissed between his teeth, hands clenching at his reins while he planted his feet in the stirrups and tried to keep his horse _still_.

“ _Fasta vass -_ you’re not _serious_.”

The Altus, however, stared at the creature he’d just created, and took in a deep, shaky breath. He thought of the bog unicorn, that poor beast that sat even now in the stables of Skyhold, its breath escaping it in eerie, jagged wheezes. Instead of shying away, Dorian stepped forward, and extended a hand to the putrid thing, palm forward. “Easy,” He near-whispered, and was awarded a rattling snort for his efforts. Reanimating something that was in mid-fight to fight on was one thing; reanimating something that died in a mindless panic could very possibly turn into another, and quickly, if a less benevolent spirit had sniffed out all that terror. He inhaled, and eased his palm along the singed hair along the side of the beast’s neck, grasping the saddle once his hand came into contact with it. The spirit possessing it took another shuffling lean, probably still getting used to this new body, but allowed him to right the saddle – righted enough to ride, at any rate. The fire had peeled at the leather, but it seemed sturdy enough to hold him, and the fastenings of the girth were still sturdy and buckled. It would not be a comfortable endeavor, but it would get him to Cumberland.

He tested his weight in a stirrup, and the beast remained still as he pulled himself up.

Settling into his seat, Dorian lifted his gaze to catch Fenris once again, almost surprised that the elf had stuck around for the whole ordeal. His breath caught in his throat at the broiling stare he was receiving, and the pair sat on their horses statue-still for a moment, two, before Dorian was clearing his throat and nudging his creature forward. “Yes, well. Carrying on?”

Fenris remained tense in his saddle, jaw working and clenching, but said nothing more. His eyes dropped to the resurrected creature one more time before he turned his horse around, the gelding all too eager to get underway, but he dipped his head, gesturing Dorian forward first.

The deep furrow of his brow and the tight downward curve of his mouth, however, gave the mage a bad feeling.

 

✵✵✵

 

Fenris had been as quiet as the dead when they crossed into Nevarra proper, and Dorian had given up on starting conversation quickly, the ache of his jaw still fresh and hot.

He wasn’t sure how long the spell would last, but the looks he’d been receiving from passerby on the road since the border ranged anywhere between terrified of the undead beast, or – as Nevarrans tended to – caught in a sort of venerable awe of the creature, giving him a wide berth on the road. He figured that the ride in was as good a spectacle as any to give lingering Venatori a banner to spot.

Void take the wretched Spymaster and her ‘stay hidden’ agenda. If Dorian was to infiltrate a secret cult, he could not remain so secret himself. And really, Dorian was _quite_ done with putting himself into mortal danger for the sake of remaining unseen. Nevarra was a long way from the arm of the Inquisition, and with every step, the chase fell further to the back of his mind. They’d avoided patrols and scouts the entire way – if Leliana had gone through with her threat, either her forces were really doing a piss-poor job of searching them out, or she had sent them all to the wrong locations.

And every time he thought of how two-faced every action or order of hers might be, Dorian felt less and less like he was doing this for anyone’s good. If he had less knowledge of the venatori, he might doubt everything entirely.

The only sound, beyond the clopping of their horse’s hooves, was the low rattle of the lungs of Dorian’s own. Neither man had said a word more near the bridge, and while Dorian was almost at his wits end, he couldn’t think of what more to say. Fenris was a tense coil of barbed wire waiting to snap, and when he did it would be _ugly_ . Dorian didn’t want to set him off prematurely, but he couldn’t take this damnable _silence_.

“Are we back to not talking? I thought we’d recovered from that point, at least.”

“If you wish to speak, speak. If I wish to answer, I will.”

The Altus opened his mouth, and then gave pause to the tone with which the warrior had taken. Cold and collected, and very much not the man he’d been before they crossed that bridge. “I - what? Did I do something else to piss you off?”

The sudden tension in the air could be cut with a knife. “I simply was not aware that you practiced schools of magic that I find abhorrent.”

Dorian’s mouth fell open, but while his body tensed, his jaw clenched back up again. The ache of it had barely receded beyond allowing him to speak with only a bearable amount of discomfort, and clenching it left Dorian’s muscles on fire, but it was too quick a reaction to contain. “…Excuse me?”

The fingers around Fenris’ reins tensed, and he counted, _ten_ , before they released again, agonizingly slowly. The elf’s face was twisted, jaw clenched and holding back what was probably a slough of scathing remarks. A few, however, slipped through. “Necromancy is a vile magic. The dead are no more deserving of being used or _possessed as the living_.”

Dorian couldn't inhale. He sat stock-still in his saddle, overwhelmed and staring at the warrior. Fenris was resolutely looking forward, brows furrowed, a scowl settled deep into his features. The expression spoke of an old and bitter resentment.

“You are no better than a blood mage. You do not even allow their _fear_ to be their own.” He finished, harsh and final, and Dorian bristled up in his own defense.

“It is more complicated than that.” He said, and to his credit he managed to keep the tremor of rage-panic out of his voice. “And I am _no_ blood mage.” They'd come so far. And his _thaumaturgy_ would be what well and truly undid whatever amount of companionship they'd managed to eke out during the course of their journey?

From Fenris’ expression, it appeared it very well might be. “Then tell me, mage. What, exactly, makes this better?”

That... Well, while it was not perhaps an absolutely absurd question, considering, it was certainly too convoluted to get into _right then_ . Dorian chewed at the inside of his cheek, staring at the elf, and when he glanced up to what had been specks down the road minutes ago, he could make out a wagon and a lone rider to its side. “We don't have time for this, Fenris.” More, he did not have the _energy_ . “We can talk about this later. Cumberland - it's _right there_ . We'll be there before dark, and I will answer everything you can think to ask - just... Not _now_.”

The elf’s glare became something decidedly angrier, but he looked down the road after Dorian's eyes, hissed out a breath, and pulled quietly at his reins, falling behind.

They entered the city a little before dusk, and while Dorian could feel Fenris at his back, hear the gelding's tack clinking and the horse's footfalls the entire way down the road, the warrior had not said a word, even when the wagon and rider had passed with polite staring at Dorian’s horse and excited whispers when they thought they were out of earshot. Nor had Dorian dared to look back over his shoulder, however, dreading whatever expression he would find on Fenris’ face.

It was going to be a long night.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’d like to say I had a better excuse for this chapter taking so long. But I fought with it a lot and got a new computer and it was easier to play some Dragon Age than it was to write it, for a while, and then when I came back to it I rewrote the whole thing and split it in half. The good news is that this chapter is done, and the next one is done and will be up tomorrow, and the ones coming for a while after flow much more easily for me. Thanks for reading, hopefully I will see you again soon!
> 
> ((Haaaaaa it`s been a while since a chapter was under 3000 words. THE NEXT ONE MAKES UP FOR IT.))


	21. Opacare

The inn he decided on had a stable attached, and the eager stable boy had hurried out to greet them, stopping dead at the sight of the Altus’ horse. Fenris was the first to dismount, handing the boy his far more normal gelding, and shot one last glare to Dorian before putting one tense, hesitant hand on the mare’s neck, his gauntlets cracking at its skin while Dorian dropped himself from the saddle. “I'll find you inside.” He muttered under his breath, leading the beast inside the barn, and Dorian puffed out a sharp exhale through his nose, heading for the actual entrance with a glance at the wrought iron dragon’s foot above the door.

The inn itself was quaint; quiet and sombre, and like a good many Nevarran inns, littered with morbid memorabilia - candlesticks of fingerbones, bookends made of bronze-cast cat skulls, tapestries generations old and tenderly cared for. The woman behind the desk was young, and looked frazzled. A daughter, perhaps, or a relative who inherited the place and didn't quite know what to do with it yet. Dorian stood admiring the decor a while longer before Fenris came in through the door, and when he found Dorian, a glare flit across his eyes before he exhaled, and looked away. Dorian inhaled, slid his ring thrice around his finger, and stepped up to the counter while digging into the satchels at his belt, Fenris a silent shadow behind him.

“One room, if you please.” Dorian set coin onto the counter, and watched as the woman’s eyes slid behind him to Fenris, and then back, taking in the shreds of his robes from the fall. He hadn't bothered changing out of them, being close enough to the city that the prospect of a bath outweighed possible first impressions, but now he was beginning to wonder. Again, her eyes fell behind him, and he heard Fenris shift on his feet, soles scraping against the old floorboards.

“Just... One, Serrah? Only rooms we have left have one bed.” Her eyes flit back to him, brows lifting slightly. The mage flared his nostrils, and almost bit his tongue.

Well, Fenris  _ was _ being a bit of a tit.

Scratch that.

_ Massive _ tit.

“That’s fine.” Dorian said, tone breezy while his lips curled upward in a vicious, almost genuine smile. “There’s a chair for the slave to sleep in, I hope?”

The young woman startled back, and took in better account of the robes Dorian was wearing despite their state, the snake motif no longer lost on her. Tevinter citizens were perhaps not quite commonplace, but she seemed to pick up the hint well enough. “Oh! Uh, yes, there are two.” She amended lamely, and pursed her lips in embarrassment. “Apologies, Se- er,  _ Magister _ .” She nodded, pulling a key from the drawer in front of her to set in front of Dorian without making eye contact, and made to look busy shuffling parchment around on the desk.

Dorian had to keep his face from falling, and a sigh from escaping his lips.

_ “Not a magister, but it’ll do,” _ He muttered, swiping the key and stifling his sigh as he turned. Those sharp green eyes were on him, burning like a portal to the fade, and he had little doubt that being referred to openly as a slave was not high on Fenris’ current list of ‘can handle’. Dorian offered little more than a lift of his brows, and moved past him toward the stairs. He could nearly  _ feel  _ the press of the stormclouds surrounding the elf as they reached the appropriate floor, growing more and more dense with every step, but Dorian made no hurry to get to the room, or to offer to help Fenris carry the packs he’d come in laden with.

“And what was  _ that _ ?” Fenris spat, spinning on his heel as soon as the door was closed. Dorian turned his head from where he was, one hand on the latch while the other’s fingers worked the clasp of his cloak open. Fenris snarled, throwing their packs down, and fought his way out of his own cloak with far less grace.

“What was what?” Dorian asked, brows lifting higher. It was too easy to read the rage painting across his features, but the mage couldn't find it in him to apologize. Not right then. Fenris’ absolute  _ distaste _ for Dorian’s entire being over the course of the last few hours had the mage’s nerves going haywire, leaving him on the verge of either hysterics or shutting down entirely, and Fenris’ tone, his enraged movements, only spun the spindle tighter.

“You make a poor actor. And a  _ shit _ magister.” Fenris hissed, hackles raised, and Dorian scoffed for lack of a better comeback, but was spurred on by the venom in Fenris’ expression.

“Oh I apologize - not enough blood magic and evil laughter for you? I will work on that for next time.” He spat, stepping forward, and Fenris managed to throw his cloak from his shoulders, the lines of his armor doing a much better job at making him seem more intimidating. His retort was little more than a snarl.

“Flaunt your necromancy further and twist your moustache; that should about cover it.”

The bite of the statement had Dorian reeling. 

“Oh, what, I should introduce myself to every person I meet with a ‘Good day to you! Dorian Pavus. I have all the power of the fade in my baby toe, but  _ also it’s important to note I dabble in Necromancy’ _ ? Forget all my other hobbies or my love for athletic musculature or what I do with the Randy Dowager Quarterly in my private time, it’s the  _ Necromancy _ I have to be up front about.”

“Well there isn’t  _ much else  _ that you seem to be comfortable being up front about.” Fenris said, too quickly, and while Dorian looked startled, Fenris seemed to take in what he’d just said. He inhaled, sharply, and flexed his fingers in his gauntlets. “You... Should have  _ told  _ me.”

“Told you?” The Altus asked, exasperated. It felt like the wind had been knocked right out of him. “Maker's breath, Fenris. If there is a comprehensive list of things you need to know, please do deliver it to me, so I can avoid any more of...  _ This. _ ” He blurt out, arm gesturing to the elf in his entirety. The furrow of his brow, the tense square of his shoulders, the tight posture he held even while the muscles of his legs twitched, itching to start pacing. “Necromancy isn't anything to be afraid of - that is, if you're on the side of the one casting it - but it isn't all fear and possession. It  _ is _ more complicated than that. The spirits that are summoned in necromancy are  _ not  _ the same sort as a blood mage would be trying to communicate with, or even a somniari. I'm not binding them to my bidding. I seek the benevolent ones - the ones  _ willing  _ to help without asking for something in return.”

“ _ That does not make it better _ .” Fenris snapped, and turned, pacing a few steps before forcing himself to a standstill. If the tremors shuddering through his body were any indication, it was a great deal of effort not to keep moving. “Any spirit can be a demon.  _ None  _ of them are safe to trifle with, and pulling them out of the fade by  _ any  _ means is madness!”

“They are only trouble if they are corrupted,” Dorian corrected, stepping closer with a frown. “If a spirit of Justice comes into this world to protect someone fighting for good -”

“ _ Do not speak to me of Justice. _ ” The warrior hissed, so suddenly and with so much spite that Dorian’s tongue, for just an instant, fell mute. “Justice is no less at fault for damages to this world than  _ any _ demon of the fade.”

Air escaped through his nose. “That's ridiculous. Spirits of Justice are -”

“ _ I knew one _ .” Fenris interrupted again, and again, Dorian fell quiet. “They said he was no harm, as you insist. They were wrong. The Mage Rebellion  _ began _ at the hands of a noble  _ idiot  _ inhabiting the same body as this so-called  _ Justice _ . What of the loss of innocent lives is  _ just _ ?”

Dorian stared at the elf. Hard. He'd never heard... But the looks on Fenris’ face, the  _ hate _ in his eyes...

“ _ Anything that comes out of the fade is dangerous. _ ” Fenris insisted. “You may as well be enlisting the help of the upfront demons, if you are going to deal with their kin.”

He thought of Cole, then. A spirit of compassion, of mercy, killing without question simply because something  _ hurt _ and it was seemingly the only way to make it  _ stop. _ It was easy to forget, sometimes, that the shades of grey that people saw the world in were more difficult for spirits to discern.

I'm fighting.  _ Protect me _ .

I'm surrounded.  _ Scare them away _ .

I’m hurting.  _ Hurt them back _ .

“It's necromancy, Fenris.” He said again, even if something itched at the back of his throat, and he had to curl his fingers in to hide the shaking of his fingers. “I am no blood mage. There is never any blood required. Not from anyone.” Save, well, the probable blood involved in the dying, but really -

“Oh I'm sorry. Please excuse me if I’m _ less  _ thrilled to find out that you no longer need my blood in order to control me - you simply need my body. That certainly  _ should _ be a comfort.”

“But I wouldn't!” Dorian burst out, and nearly forgot to at least try and keep his voice down. Luckily, neither of them had started shouting quite yet, but if this continued... He might. He stepped forward, and Fenris shot back a step, bristling. Clenching his extended fingers into a tight fist, the mage exhaled, rough and sharp. Fenris watched him, alert and not unlike a caged animal, before turning. He paced away and back, and forced himself to stop again, looking no more calm.

“And if  _ I _ fell? You would have a spirit enter what was left of me? Have it  _ control _ me?”

“What –  _ what, no _ , Fenris –“ Dorian sputtered, but stared at the warrior’s livid face, the shake of his arms as he held his hands in unimaginably tight fists – “-No. That’s… I have the ability, but I do not use it on my allies. Not if it isn’t what they want.”

“It is  _ not _ what I want.” Fenris growled suddenly, knuckles cracking from how tight he held them. “It is  _ never _ -”

“ _ Noted _ ,” Dorian said, and maybe more harshly than he’d meant to, but his stiff posture sank at the sight of Fenris faltering, his words failing him, and Dorian broke, stepping forward, seizing Fenris by the arms. The warrior nearly flinched, hissing and trying to pull away, but Dorian held fast despite the glow of Fenris’ brands. “I won’t.  _ Ever _ . Fenris – just, I need you to listen to me. I need you to understand something.” He held on until Fenris huffed through his nose, eyes practically on fire, and waited until his struggling stopped. He knew, if Fenris’ heart was truly in struggling, he’d have phased and been gone. Dorian probably wouldn’t have been left breathing, either. So he met that infuriated gaze, and worked his own fingers loose when Fenris finally fell still, keeping his voice low.  _ “I won’t.” _

Fenris stilled, but his breathing remained irregular, and he glared daggers Dorian’s way. “Don’t make promises you do intend to keep.”

“Fenris...” The Altus exhaled, heavy, desperate. “What can I do? What can I do to make you realize that I am not out to hurt you?” There was a short silence, and Fenris frowned, holding Dorian’s eyes when he caught them. 

“You are Tevinter.”

The statement was a damnation. “And so that makes me a villain.” Dorian said, his voice thin, shoulders dropping. Fenris followed the motion, and then his eyes darted away.

“... For many, that is enough.”

Dorian stared at him, lips parted, his crowded mind quieting. He swallowed, and his thumbs ran across Fenris’ skin absently, pausing to the flicker of lyrium that the touch awoke. He took a second to watch the light dance and slow his thoughts, searching for words to match. When they came, they fell in a rush, fleeing from his lungs. “I’m not... I might not be the best of men. But I would never do that to you.  _ Especially _ not to you.” And something hung back, behind the last statement, clogging his throat and leaving the passage of his breath labored and shaking.

Fenris’ mouth twisted as though he had something to say to that, but a knock on the door had both men straightening up in a jolt, hearts leaping at the sudden noise in the equally as sudden quiet. Two sets of eyes turned toward the door, and when the elf tried to shake his arms free another time, Dorian let him.

Approaching the doorway, Fenris lifted a hand over his shoulder, fingers wrapping around the hilt of the greatsword strapped to it. Dorian inhaled, fingers tightening on his staff as he pulled it from its bindings, and he tensed when fenris threw open the door to reveal - a serving girl, who jumped and nearly threw the serving tray in her hands at the sudden jolt of motion. Dorian cut short a sharp sound, and Fenris jerked back, fingers twisting away from his weapon. 

“A-apologies!  _ M-maker,”  _ She exhaled, eyes wide and on Fenris, but then she was gulping and turning her head to Dorian, dropping her gaze. She made a noise, faltered, and swore under her breath. 

Dorian blinked, and exchanged a quick look with Fenris before looking back again to the girl. Had she... Forgotten what she was there for? The platter she held was stocked with an array of chopped fruits and vegetables, and a small cup of soup that had nearly entirely spilled from her fright. “... Yes?” He said curiously, and the girl twitched, clearing her throat.

“Your... Dinner, messere? I'm sorry, it's later than our usual dining time, so this was all we had available -” She tipped her chin toward the food on the platter she held, knuckles tight against the brass handles. A steamed carrot wobbled off of its plate and onto the floor. She swore again, and apparently the elf was feeling merciful, stepping in front of her to ease the platter from her shaking grip.

Dorian, however, frowned. “My thanks, but... I didn't send for any food -”

“It's on the house!” The girl blurted out, her head down, and Fenris stepped back, turning to narrow his eyes at the mage, who lifted his shoulders and mouthed  _ ‘I didn't know,’ _ helplessly. “That is, uh, courtesy of the inn. For the mixup when you arrived. We never meant to imply -” and she stumbled over her words, fidgeting with the apron about her waist now that she had no platter to white-knuckle.

_ Oh. _

Dorian glanced again to Fenris. “Ah. Yes, well. We've all learned our lesson then, I hope.”

“Yes, messere.” She tipped further forward, hands shaking. Dorian half wondered who from the imperium they'd pissed off in the past that this was his treatment, or if this was simply those old wives tales from Orlais about the wrathful Tevinter citizens that enjoyed gutting southerners for fun peeking it's good old head out once again. At least, for once, the stereotype was to his benefit.

“If... That will be all?” He said and she nodded, ducking her head one last time with a sputtered pleasantry and retreating to the stairs.

While Dorian stumbled forward to shut the door, Fenris set the food onto the small table along one wall, his fingers remaining on the handles a moment, tense. With his back against the door, Dorian listened, and when a minute turned into three, with no sign of armored boots trudging up the stairs, the mage finally let himself relax. The breath burning in his lungs fell out in a rush, and when he looked to Fenris, the elf had straightened up, but hadn’t moved.

“ _ Well _ ,” He almost laughed at the absurdity of it all, and it only then started to hit him just what he might have been about to say, before that poor serving girl saved his skin. “Free dinner - how quaint. I enjoy Nevarra more and more every time I visit.”

Fenris turned, his brows furrowed. He, obviously, was not as done with the topic as Dorian was. A question looked to be forming in the twist of his brows, and Dorian was suddenly determined to never have to hear it. “Hungry? Let’s eat!” He approached the table with more enthusiasm than was really warranted for leftovers and hopefully-not-spoiled fruits, but there was the whole avoiding the topic thing, along with the fact that this was not  _ stale bread _ or  _ nug _ , and really that was a little fantastic all on it’s own despite it all. 

“...It’s probably poisoned.” Fenris muttered, remaining where he was. Dorian scoffed.

“Don’t be ridiculous. We’re not in Tevinter  _ yet _ .” He pulled out a chair, sat, and leaned his staff against the wall, motioning for Fenris to take the other. The warrior hesitated, but sat, when apparently the pull of the food became too much. He reached, hesitantly, for the apple sliced into pieces, and Dorian gave the whole plate over wholeheartedly, starting instead with the soup.

Dinner, thankfully apparently poison-free, was a quiet affair. At least, until Dorian had drained the watered down wine in the small glass offered, and Fenris apparently found his tongue. He inhaled, sharply, and when he didn’t say anything at first, Dorian pulled the glass from his lips.

“Did the inquisition know about this?”

A short breath slid out from between his lips. Back to it, then. “Of course they did -” and he was cut off with a sharp, hissed curse from the elf.

“ _ Vishante kaffas _ .”

Dorian blinked, straightening his spine, and while he set down his cup, Fenris raked his chair back across the floor and stood, throwing the piece of apple onto the plate before taking up his pacing toward the bed and back again. Dorian was definitely noticing the habit. The mage sat back, and the warrior drew up to their traveling packs, fingers clenching and unclenching as though he might be debating taking off. Running, always running. Dorian couldn’t really blame him. “Round and round the mulberry bush.” He said quietly, with no small amount of sarcastic bite. The look Fenris turned on him was intense.

“Excuse me?”

“You're obviously angry,” Dorian said, tired, and crossed his legs, lifting an elbow to the table to trace a brow with his thumb. “It’s a definite favorite disposition of yours, I’m noticing. I just wonder, sometimes, if you even know  _ what _ you’re angry about, or if it’s just a general  _ everything _ .”

If he'd been listening a little harder, Dorian imagined he might have heard that tense wire, wound tighter and tighter around the elf since the ravine, finally give with a  _ snap _ .

“ _ Angry _ .” He scoffed, spine straight and fingers clenching, spreading like claws. “Angry. That is not even close. I am  _ livid _ . I am  _ inflamed _ . I have not only been lied to and coerced into throwing myself back into slavery by this Inquisition, but it is in the company of a  _ tevinter mage _ , who I am only now finding out is a  _ necromancer. _ You are  _ \- infuriating - _ you do not hunt, you rely on your magic more more than you even realize, you either have to be the  _ clumsiest  _ rider or have the worst luck I have ever seen, and yet I continue -  _ ugh.” _ He returned to pacing, tearing his eyes away as he did, and Dorian stared.

While Fenris paced, back and forth, back and forth, Dorian chewed over his words carefully. He fiddled with what was in front of him, scraping a thumbnail against the dull knife that had come with their dinner with a long, deep inhale.

“If it’s all the same to you,” Dorian started with a sigh, his tongue between his teeth for a moment of thought before just throwing the idea out for Fenris to chomp on and tear to pieces. “I’d really rather stop fighting.”

He expected another vicious retort. He was surprised when Fenris’ shoulders sagged with the weight of a heaved breath, and the warrior lifted his eyes from where they’d fallen on the threadbare rug under their feet. “As much as that would be appreciated... I cannot promise that it will happen. There is... A  _ great deal _ of things that frustrate me to no avail, and while I may have gotten better with help, I still...” He trailed off, frowning, and exhaled sharply. Dorian swallowed. “You embody...  _ Much _ of what frustrates me.”

“Like the necromancy.” Fenris inhaled sharply, turned on his heel, and walked across the room and back again, though less feverishly than before. “And my breeding.” Dorian went on, and did not miss the way Fenris’ nostrils flared on another roundabout. But this was better gotten over and done with. “And the simple fact that I was born with a gift that frustrates you, and instead of squandering it or allowing it to control  _ me, _ I have worked my entire life to perfecting everything dangerous about it to the point where I  _ know _ it will not bring harm to anyone I care about.” He met Fenris’ eyes, the furrow of his brow, and pressed on. “ _ That _ frustrates you.”

“ _ No.  _ Yes. I -” Fenris slowed in his pacing, the fight draining from his very bones, judging by the slow slouch of his shoulders. The warrior exhaled, long and low, before crossing one arm under the other and rubbing a knuckle between his brows. “I am frustrated.  _ You  _ are frustrating.”

Pot. Kettle.

But Dorian had apparently uncorked the words Fenris had been bottling up for hours, if not longer. “Magic _tempts_ men. And, eventually, they all give in to it. I have seen nothing else. Not even amongst Hawke’s own companions.” He swept a hand out in the air frustratedly, and then dropped his arms. “I spent years trying to warn her; she would have none of it. _Years_ , and all that came of it was secrets, betrayal and _stupidity_. Spirits and demons overcame them both. I am not... Looking forward to watching it happen again.”

Dorian could not help the twitch of his mouth, but it was more a frown than a smile. “Well, so far so good, despite living in Tevinter for my entire life. Can I at least be given the benefit of the doubt?”

“You are closer than any of them seemed.” Fenris said instead of allowing him as much, and the tone he held made Dorian’s mouth go dry. “You swear you are no blood mage, but have the power to summon demons and control people all the same. You have  _ lived  _ with the temptation hanging over your head,  _ surrounded _ by blood mages, and yet...” He exhaled, long and low, and even though he wasn’t quite sure why, the mage held his breath. Fenris’ own breath hitched, and when he spoke again, Dorian wasn’t sure if it was a continuation, or if Fenris had branched off of the topic. “And yet that does not dissuade me from following you or pulling you out of harm's way, if I am able.” The elf continued, keeping his back turned to the mage, and there was a thickness in Dorian’s throat as Fenris went on. “Perhaps it is that I am  _ accustomed  _ to it, even still. I thought myself beyond it, but I find myself falling into habits I thought long dead, and... And that is  _ alarming _ , to me.” 

He stared at the sharp points of the elf’s armor, and swallowed. The lump did not allow it. Dorian watched his head tip in silence toward the ceiling, and only then realized the vice grip he had on the knife still in his fingers. This was no longer anything to do with his magic, or the particular types he enjoyed casting. This was no longer perhaps even really about  _ him _ . It was  _ what  _ he was, and what Fenris had to  _ pretend _ at being.

“Venhedis. I don't know why I am telling you this. It's not as though you would even care.”

A breath, and Dorian found his voice. “If I did not care,” he said, and set the knife down while his knuckles regained feeling. “Then I would not have asked.”

His answer was a snort, and Fenris left his head tilted toward the roof.  “I will not go back to being what I was. I am not -” He bit his tongue, grunting, and dropped his arm, but still did not turn. The Altus sat forward, words on his tongue, and yet he could not find the voice to finish the job. What would he say? Fenris was, of course, no longer a slave - Dorian had no intention of making it so, but for what? For the brief moments he had to himself? There were eyes everywhere in Tevinter, watching like predators for the smallest slip, and they would have to maintain the Act nearly every waking moment as soon as they crossed the border.

His silence seemed to say enough, and the warrior exhaled, fists working themselves back loose, rolling his neck before heading toward their packed things. The defeated fall of his shoulders spurred Dorian’s tongue into spewing words, despite their futility.

“You're a free man, fenris.” He said, and the sound was nearly lost in the shuffle of Fenris rifling through their bags, unlatching a bedroll. The elf either did not hear, or was making a point not to respond, but Dorian felt the need to go on. “Through all this. You remain free. If it's ever too much, call me out on it. In front of any company; I make a shit slaver, anyway, who knows if anyone will even believe it in the first place?”

Slowly, the elf turned his head, and with a snort cutting off a longer exhale, he sat back on his heels. “I have no intention of giving us away.”

It was a relief and a damnation, all wrapped up into one neat little package. Dorian pushed himself to his feet, urgency pushing him into motion, even if it was only to pile their dishes up and run a hand across his jaw. Fenris returned to his task, apparently thinking the discussion over and done with, and his dismissal only had Dorian fidgeting more insistently, pacing and suddenly too warm for the room.

_ I want to do the right thing _ , he wanted to say, but the dark pit in his stomach held onto the words, twisting around them and burying them deeper into his chest.  _ The right thing _ would be to turn back. To put Fenris back where he’d received the Inquisition’s summons, and let him continue on leading his life as he was.  _ The right thing _ would be to tell Leliana to shove it, and take down the Venatori from the front lines, without playing this double-triple-however many it took-agent  _ farce  _ when he had spent so long convincing the entire world that he was not a  _ liar _ .

_ Breathe, Dorian. Focus. _

“You really  _ do  _ make a poor Magister, however. I’m sticking to that.”

He nearly stumbled over his own feet. Turning to stare at the elf, the Altus blinked, and very nearly laughed, before the weight of that admission came tumbling back down on him again. “I know,” his voice was barely more than an exhale. He sank backward a step, and took in a shaky breath, his hands hanging mindlessly in front of him a moment before raking them up and through his hair, taking another few steps back to half-collapse onto the edge of the bed. He dug his elbows into his knees, and the silence hanging in the room was growing too heavy to breathe. “I know.” He said again, and made an aggravated noise, fingers digging into his scalp. “You saying does not make me any better at it, or change the fact that I have to try to convince others of it.”

“You told me you were not a  _ good _ man, once.” Fenris said after another tense silence, and Dorian looked up. When he met Fenris’ eyes, there was a guarded sort of hate there, but it didn’t seem directed at him, necessarily. “... _ Act _ like it.”

Dorian stared at him. If he was honest with himself, he wasn't sure if he  _ could. _ Instead of saying anything, he swallowed, and when Fenris growled something out under his breath before returning to their packs, the mage stood again, that whisper of freshly familiar dread coiled around his ribs.

Kicking the bedroll out flat and tossing his cloak on top of it, Fenris seemed to be ready to get a decent night’s sleep in, and the slow ache of exhaustion settled into Dorian’s bones a little more quickly after the meal.  _ Bed _ sounded like a wonderful idea. But at the same time...

“There’s... Room for both of us,” He blurted out halfway through undressing beside the bed, and Fenris looked up at him from unbuckling a bracer, startled. Dorian shrugged. “ _ No. _ I mean sleeping. You don’t have to sleep on the floor.”

The elf settled, his shoulders dropping, and Dorian saw the bob of his throat as Fenris swallowed. “That is not necessary.” He said a little sourly, and glanced away, hesitating before sliding his gauntlet back on and refastening it. Dorian made a low scoffing sound from deep in his throat.

“What, you think I’ll have my wicked way with you if you sleep without your armor on? You’re being ridiculous. About that,  _ and _ the bed.” The elf shot him a glare, and Dorian fought every urge to roll his eyes, but he relented, and prepared for bed in silence.

Most of his clothes ended up in a haphazard pile on the bedside table, save for a comfortable pair of half pants he’d been saving for once they reached the desert. What was unsalvageable from the fall was left in a bloody, ragged pile in the corner, and Dorian took a moment to inspect his own wounds, relieved to find that while the color of his bruises were unbecoming at best, there didn’t seem to be any horrendous internal bleeding happening, and he could move his limbs mostly normally, but his hip was stiff, and his right arm cracked at the shoulder when he rolled it, sending a sharp reminder through his system that that was a  _ bad  _ idea. 

Sighing, he moved to crawl into bed with one more look at the quiet elf by the door, pausing at the sight of him; knees bent and looking for all the world that he was used to sleeping on floors – though not only the outdoors sort. Dorian’s throat clenched, and he slid his knee back off of the mattress. With a low breath, he grabbed his half-cloak, thumb brushing against the soft, warm material. It had served him well enough as a quick blanket in the Skyhold library...

Fenris sat up when he approached, looking wary at first before his eyes dropped to the mage’s offering, and his dark brows curved downward curiously. “I’m serious, Fenris.” Dorian said quietly, still extending his hand, the fabric of his cloak heavy in his fingers. “About your freedom. About Tevinter. About everything.”

Fenris stared up at him in silence, brows twitching, and he pulled the cloak from Dorian’s grasp with his mouth working itself open, a dozen words forming on his lips before falling shut again. “As am I.”

“Fenris -”

“I already said that I had no intentions of getting us killed, Mage.” He said shortly, spreading out the cloak over his bent legs. When Dorian clenched his teeth, he spoke again. “But... The sentiment is appreciated.”

Dorian exhaled, taking the statement for what it was, and heaved a long breath on his way back to the bed. Rolling the coverlet back over himself once he settled in, he slapped his arms to his sides, and shifted to remove himself from one lump in the mattress to another. Still, it had to beat the floor. “So... We’re doing this.” He said, and while he didn’t expect an answer, he listened when one came.

“It seems so.”

Dorian nodded, his eyes on the dark ceiling. “Right.” He whispered, and licked his lips. Anxiety wore at his nerves along with the dread, and he wasn’t sure if he was going to be  _ able _ to sleep, now that he’d settled in and there was a proper chance for it. Even his  _ bones _ were tired, and yet his brain kept on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully this chapter makes up for the last short one! Look at them, starting to work through their shit. So proud. THERE'S A LOT OF IT TO SIFT THROUGH.
> 
> As always, thank you for reading! Hope to see all your lovely faces back for the next chapter~ ♥


	22. Noctem

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Juuust a friendly neighborhood reminder about that gore tag. That this fic is tagged with. Here there be organs.)

Dorian woke to a creak in the floorboard.

It wouldn’t have seemed odd, to him, if he’d been somewhere familiar. Still it took him a half-second to gather his bearings, and a glint of steel against the moon from the open window had him bolting into action.

The knife sank into his pillow a fraction of a second after he rolled, landing unceremoniously on the floor in a tangled mess of limbs and bedsheet. A sharp curse escaped him while he fought to free himself, and he heard a series of short gasps and grunts across the room, followed by the sound of something heavy hitting the floor. _Fenris?_ He’d have looked, if the room was not the color of muted pitch – more importantly, perhaps, if the knife was not plunging toward him again.

With a startled, rough curse, Dorian threw the twisted end of the sheet upward, catching his assailant around the wrist and jerking his arm off course. A quick Orlesian hiss met the action, and Dorian threw his legs up, feet connecting with the assassin’s middle to kick him a few paces back. Just long enough for him to free himself and stumble to his feet, his fingers itching for his staff, which he knew stood against the wall on the other side of the bed. The man was coming at him again.

Then again, and lucky for him, Dorian did not _need_ a staff.

There was fire in his palms - and then blood spattered across his bare chest, warm and shocking and _entirely too close_. He stared as the man’s face slackened, eyes rolled back, his body sagging, yet something continued to hold him up. Wide, dark eyes glanced down, and Dorian stumbled back a step at the gauntleted forearm that protruded from the assassin’s chest. In the light of his own flames, he could make out the glistening heart in its palm, the organ pumping once, twice, and then going still.

Another, shuddering step backward, and Dorian had to snuff out his fire, pressing a hand against his mouth. The body was jostled gracelessly, his heart dropped without a care to the floor, and the sound it made had Dorian gagging quietly behind his hand, turning away.

Battle, he was used to. _Many things_ happened to enemies on the battlefield, in the thick of it. The thump of torn-off limbs, the crack of bones, in wrists and legs and ribcages, the hollow _thock_ of someone’s skull being bashed in, the sound of someone exploding from the inside – Dorian could handle a great many sounds.

Disembodied hearts slapping wetly onto the planks of wooden floorboards in the silence of the night was, apparently, not one of them. The corpse hit the floor with a heavier thump and the light rattle of armor, and Dorian nearly wondered about how much easier _that_ sound was to stomach. Something more impertinent, however, needed to be found out.

“Who-”

Fenris’ hand - thankfully, the one not covered in gore - quickly moved to silence him, and Dorian stared. A glint of gold reflected in the elf’s eyes as he turned, and Dorian squinted through the dark at a lump of a figure on the floor. The man groaned, and moved to stand, but was apparently having trouble. Bleeding, then, but not expired. Inhaling sharply, Dorian summoned flames into his palms again, but paused at Fenris’ sharp look.

The glimmer of an elf’s eyes in the dark was something he’d never quite get used to.

“Would you have his heart as well, Master?”

Dorian’s heart dropped into his stomach, and not only at the word itself. While Fenris had once hissed it at him, the way he said it now – a steady cadence, _dead_ and _beaten_ , as though he might offer up every one of the man’s organs if it would make Dorian happy, he just only had to ask it. His breath caught in his throat for a second, two, three, _staring_ , and Fenris exhaled, dropping his head.

 _The Act_ , he panicked, his tongue tripping over itself, and when words spilled out, he hoped they did not sound nearly as uncertain as he felt. “No.” He said, and glanced the assassin’s way when he said it, eyes picking up on the jerk of the masked face towards him. The clothing did not scream Tevinter, but he supposed assassins might be a little better than that. A slow, deliberate inhale, and his words came out more steadily. “Obviously, his employers are a little out of their league. Let him run back to his betters with his tail between his legs. That is,” He paused, and glanced at the window, and then to Fenris, dark brows lowering. “If he survives the fall.”

The warrior stared at him in the dark beyond the assassin’s broken cry, and then the elf was lowering his head, lyrium brands brilliant in the dim, even under the layers of his armor.

The armor he’d slept in. The armor he’d almost taken off, if Dorian had not set him on edge. They had let their guard down.

Grabbing the assassin by the back of his coat, the elf hauled him up, dragging his limply struggling form closer to the window, and pressing it further open. There was a string of Orlesian winding out from between his lips, and Dorian wished he might better understand it. If it was a plea for mercy, it might have convinced him. As it was, he watched while Fenris wrestled him up and over the window ledge, and then let go. The muffled yell, the thump and crumple of him hitting the ground, the silence that followed… Dorian stumbled, as soon as it all caught up with him, and slipped on the pool on the floor. His stomach leaped, trying to escape upwards and away from the grisly mess, and he clapped a hand over his mouth while the warrior pulled the window shut again.

 _Pulled the Maker-damned window shut_ , like throwing someone out of one was just another Tuesday. Dorian was _falling apart_ , and Fenris was looking at him, that gleam of unnerving gold flashing in the faint light, as if everything that had just happened was _nothing_.

“Light,” Fenris mumbled, and with a flick of Dorian’s wrist, every candle in the room flared to life. Overkill, perhaps, but the Altus could not pull enough of himself together to concentrate on the few wicks that needed to be lit in order to see, and not bathe the whole room in light. Their window would become a beacon.

He found it hard to conjure a care.

"You act as though your life has never been attempted upon.” Fenris said finally, licking his thumb and forefinger to kill a number of the candles. Dorian shuddered where he stood, still trying to process, until the lyrium ghost came to a stop in front of him, brow raised expectantly.

“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s just… Well, assassins in the night is a new one, for me.”

Fenris was staring at him, still, and with the light, Dorian could see the creases between his brow. “…What a charmed life you have lived, Dorian Pavus. To have slept through the nights without worrying you would have to fear what might lurk in dark corners, out to kill you or those you are sworn to protect.”

“You say _that_ like your life was attempted upon _daily_.”

As soon as the sentence left his mouth, Dorian was struck with just how _stupid_ it was. He inhaled sharply, straightening up, palm colliding with his mouth, and then he let out a strangled groan, wiping his hand up over his face. Fenris was watching him, venom in his stare, and while his nostrils flared, he remained quiet. While Dorian beat the fuck out of himself mentally, the elf turned away again, bending down to start picking through the heartless man’s pockets.

“ _Maker’s breath, what is wrong with me?”_ Fenris gave a sharp snort to that, apparently still listening, and for the first time in days, given the opportunity to get another jab in that Dorian had left himself wide open for, the warrior left it alone. When the Altus looked at him, the muscles of his jaw were tight, teeth clenched and face set into something decidedly not happy. “That was… _Phenomenally_ stupid of me. Fenris, I-“

“It’s fine.” The elf cut in, standing while digging through a pouch he’d pilfered from the dead man’s coat. “You saying callous things without thought has become something like commonplace. It is nothing new.”

The words stung. Dorian couldn’t argue them, and that did nothing to help ease the sting. He turned his eyes to the bodies, instead, taking in their coats and helms, and something like regret curled in his throat. For _assassins_ . Fenris crossed the room, searching the others. “So now we have Venatori assassins after us?” He pushed at the shoulder of the corpse with his foot, stomach rolling to the sight of the gaping hole in his chest, once he’d been rolled onto his back properly. Dorian cleared his throat, and looked across the room at Fenris. “I know they hate _me_ , but I figured they’d be at least curious enough about you to have a peek, first.”

“Not Venatori,” Fenris spoke quietly, having stood from rifling through the third body. He held a letter in his hands, folded and a little spattered in red, and Dorian felt his heart sink as he spotted the waxen seal that would have once held it together.

Mocking him, the flaming eye of the Inquisition sat, inlaid into crimson wax. The mage stumbled back a step, then another, and fell heavily to sit onto the mattress, his stomach lurching suddenly as he did. He heaved, but managed to keep it down, and while his head spun, he gripped uselessly at the rumpled linens on the bed.

 _Assassins_ . Leliana had sent _assassins_ . Why in the void would she send Fenris and himself out, only to send others to _kill them?_

 _‘This must be believable,’_ Her words, her wretched voice echoed through his head.

Across the room, paper fluttered and crinkled. Dorian stared forward, lost in his own despair, and after a few minutes Fenris was stepping closer, holding out the folded letter. “Would you care to read it?” He was watching the mage carefully, and half-dazed, Dorian shook his head. The warrior stood there for a moment longer, and then let out a stuttered, uncomfortable breath. “...I think you should.”

The mage swallowed, but took the parchment nonetheless, and skimmed until the appearance of a name had his stomach dropping.

_...and the murder of Gereon Alexius, the mage Dorian Pavus has made his intentions against the Inquisition clear. Last seen in Skyhold, fair authority holds that he will attempt an escape into Tevinter, but it is our hope that the recruit who was captured had slowed his progress. Consider the mage the utmost threat, but due to the nature of magic and desperation, it is advised to consider the captive another possible threat if compromised by blood magic. Approach with caution, or provide information on his whereabouts back to Skyhold._

_By the order of the Inquisition, the traitor Dorian Pavus is to be captured, if able, or destroyed, should he resist. The captive is to be saved, if possible.The threat of enemies receiving the information that Pavus has at his disposal is great, and it must not fall into their hands at any cost._

_Luck and skill guide your steps._

The tail of the writ had the shaking scrawl he recognized as Lavellan’s own signature; he had taught her the loops that made up her title, and he remembered laughing between himself and Josephine as they butted heads trying to bastardize a way to spell out _Lavellan_ over wine and the Inquisitor’s complaining that she really did not care how it was spelled as long as she knew how to write it.

His fingers shook, the paper creasing loudly in his grip.

“This woman is more ruthless than even I gave her credit for.” Fenris kept his eyes on the letter, mercifully. Dorian wasn’t sure what his face looked like, but he knew there was no way it was pleasant. His voice grew tighter as he continued to speak, as if it was just starting to settle in for himself, as well. “I thought her lack of further direction careless, but now I see what she’s accomplished with it... She intends us to be run out of the South by the Inquisition’s word. You will have no one to run to; nowhere to turn _except_...”

“The Venatori,” The mage exhaled, nodding, and dropped his face into his upturned palms. “Looks like she’s trying to go with the old ‘enemy of my enemy’ adage. Could work to our favor,” He hunched forward, and even as that knot of dread curled tighter around his insides, he forcibly tried to collect himself. It wasn’t as easy as he’d hoped it would be, however, and his entire body shook - though he did manage to choke back his strangled noise, to his credit. Leliana had sent _innocent men_ to be killed – but then, hadn’t she done that already, with this fool’s errand? Distantly, he heard Fenris’ voice, muddled between the thoughts running rampant in his own head.

“This will not be the last of them, I’m sure. We may wish to head out immediately...”

And they’d fallen right into it. Fighting back, for their own lives, and sealing their fate by killing the Inquisition’s own men. Dorian tensed when gauntlets wrapped gently around his wrists; one hand cooled by the night air, the other slick and still almost warm, coated in a substance he dared not put to thought. Still, the touch was a surprise, and he opened his fingers, looking out from between them.

Fenris had crouched in front of him, his face only hinting at concern. His mouth was set in its usual grim line, his brows furled into their permanent scowl, but something... _Something_ called out to him in the way the elf leaned forward, in his brief squeeze at either of the mage’s wrists, in the light reflected in his eyes. “We should go.”

“-The last one.” Dorian looked up suddenly, and Fenris furrowed his brow. “The _last_ one. The one you threw out the window –“

“-The one _you_ had me throw out the window –“

“ _You kind of put me on the spot_.” Dorian hissed to the warrior’s defensive retort, and bolted to his feet. Without waiting for Fenris to move, he shoved his way past him and to the window, pushing it open and looking downward.

Gone.

The man was gone.

“ _Kaffas-“_ He hissed, and then there was a hand on his shoulder, pulling him back inside before Fenris was pulling the shutters closed again. Maybe, if he’d still been there – still been _conscious_ – he could explain. Could fix everything, before it was all blown so far out of proportion that… That…

What? Had the Inquisitor putting an order out for his head?

This was already blown so far out of proportion that he was fairly certain it could reach the _moon_.

Dorian lifted his hands, digging the heels of them into his eye sockets. This had gone so suddenly to the void that he was feeling seasick on solid earth. There was warmth at his side, the shuffle of armor and the grate of gauntlets, and Dorian let the sound ground him, concentrating on evening out his breathing. “We should go.” Fenris said again, a little more urgently, and the mage lowered his hands. “The one that ran must have gone to find others – if we are found, I doubt another group will be much further behind. We have to _go_.”

The urgency in his voice spurred Dorian into motion, nodding. With the dim light to go by, he dug into his pack for spare clothes and dressed, hands shaking. Fenris adjusted his armor, tightening his gauntlets and crouching to roll up the mat he’d been laying on, pausing only briefly to throw Dorian’s white cloak at him, still half warm from serving as the blanket he’d offered it up as. “Ready the horses, I’ll pack our things.” Fenris said, and Dorian nodded, though really he was almost too overwhelmed to do much else than dress and give the elf half of his attention. _Traitor. Murder. Blood magic._ Dressed, reeling, and weapon in hand, he descended the staircase, the late hour near-guaranteeing that no one would be seeing them leave.

 _Ready the horses_. That was simple enough. He could do that, despite the puddle his brain was trying to form at the base of his spine.

He turned from the steps toward the low light of the stable, but something seemed... _Wrong_. With every step, uneasiness chewed at him. As soon as he stepped through the doors, he stopped - an unsettling quiet had fallen over the animals in the barn when he figured that, at the least, Fenris’ horse would be snorting its discomfort at his stablemate.

But the mare stood, silent, her rattling lungs ceased in their attempts, and her wide, cloudy eyes focused on him, while the other horses seemed to pay her no mind. She seemed to almost be... _Waiting._

Not every spell could last forever, and he didn’t want to be caught in the middle of the dry plains of Tevinter when the possession finally gave out. The poor beast had taken him _this_ far, though, and he couldn’t just leave her, or the spirit inhabiting her body now, he supposed, to rot in some stable. His eyes fell over the other horses, picking out a new prospect that he could leave a bag of coin in place of - or not, if he decided in the end to just go all out and steal the damned thing outright, and eventually his eyes fell on his summoned beast again and her level, stagnant gaze.

It was a wonder at how the beast was still standing, when he could feel only the most threadbare of strings of magic still connected to him. She watched him with an almost unnerving clarity, and Dorian exhaled as he moved closer, fingers twitching as he released the spell.

They could go once he made sure this creature was...

Still standing.

The mage blinked, and tried to undo the spell again. Her body still did not collapse, and a slow burn of panic began to creep through Dorian’s nerves. Had he gotten in over his head? Was this spirit not one of the benevolent sort, that would listen and leave when he ordered it?

“She doesn’t want to listen,” a voice sounded from just behind his shoulder, and Dorian nearly jumped out of his skin. He whirled around to spot a familiar, garish hat and the limp, pale boy half-swallowed by the wide brim.

His heart stuttered.

“- _Cole?”_ He bit out, and the brim of the wide hat only fell lower, hiding more of the boy from view. A blink, and the spirit was gone again. Why he was _here_ was enough to ponder at, but at the same time... Dorian lifted his gaze back again to the mare, his lungs in his throat. Cole’s statement did nothing to calm him, if it was meant to.

He slid a step backward, back toward the door, ready to shout for Fenris if the creature made any sudden movement, but then there was Cole again, standing before the seemingly immortal beast curiously, one hand hovering, hesitating over her snout. Dorian stared. “So much pain. A fall, and it _hurt_ , and she could not think. She could only cry out, and compassion heard her. She saw you end it. She saw you deliver mercy. When you called, she answered.” His knuckles brushed against the horse’s ruined snout, and it pressed into the gesture, pawing softly at the straw on the floor. “And she doesn’t want to leave. Not yet. She will; she promises. But not yet.”

The mage was caught at a loss, and could still only stare. The horse watched him, and Cole watched the horse, and he stared at Cole, and the whole thing was a bizarre triangle of divided attention.

_Cole._

_Cole could fix this._

But the spirit’s eyes were on the mare, and Dorian’s tongue didn’t want to cooperate. “She’s... _So_ angry with you.” The boy said, almost hesitating, and turned his watery eyes to Dorian when the mage had to swallow. He didn’t dare to ask which _she_. A great number of guesses, probably, would all reveal the same answer.

“I didn’t do it.” He said, and Cole’s brows knotted together.

“I know.” The spirit said, and lowered his head, his face hidden by the brim of his hat. “And I... _Can’t_ help. Knowing you’re in danger will cause more pain. But I... I’ll help other ways. Any way I can.” He tipped his head up again, face earnest, but Dorian could not unclench his jaw. A chill settled over him, and the mage slid back another step, pulling the cloak he wore over his shoulders. Closing off.

Cole made a low, sad noise, and the barn settled into silence again.

“The favor.” Cole said in the quiet, and Dorian jumped again to the stable door being jarred open, turning to find Fenris slipping in with a curse under his breath. The warrior shot a mild glare his way, and Dorian tucked his cloak more tightly around himself, turning back again.

Cole was gone, but the voice whispering suddenly in the back of Dorian’s mind was crisp and clear. “She wants to help. She’s had trouble making friends, but you’re her friend, and she wants to help. She has arrows for the bad things, and they’ve worked for her so far.”

The mage turned, and Fenris had stopped closer to the doors, arms stiff at his sides. Dorian wondered for a moment if he’d seen the spirit, too. Gathering up the remnants of his drive to continue, he moved toward the mare near the end of the barn. “It looks like I’ll stick with the old girl; she doesn’t seem to want to let me go quite yet.”

Fenris’ gaze was heavy, glancing between the horse and the mage, lips parting to speak, and then there was a call of alarm from further in the city, and both men bolted to attention. “City guard. The assassin must have... _Kaffas._ ” Fenris swore, and Dorian hissed. He tried to urge the horse out from the stall she was tied in, and the spirit did not budge, staring at him.

_The favor._

“ _Shit -_ Fenris, I need something of yours.” He received a sharp, startled look, and Dorian rolled his hand in the air urgently, slapping at his belt with the other hand and then staring at his fingers, debating the rings he wore. Something not too obvious. Something Sera noticed - _better_ . He nearly jerked with the thought, and moved toward Fenris, grabbing his own bags from the elf’s shoulders, digging through a satchel he’d stuffed within. “ _Fenris._ ” He hissed when he noticed the elf had not moved. “Something. _Anything_ that someone you’d know would know was yours.”

The desperation in his tone had Fenris stuttering into motion, making an unsure noise and looking himself over - not that the warrior was overly decorated. His hands stalled over his belt, and his eyes drifted, but then quick fingers unlatched his pouch and eased out a small metal plate. He hesitated, fingers curling over it.

“It’ll be safe,” Dorian promised, and Fenris shot him a short glare, but handed it over. Dorian wrapped the tokens in the red sash, the pair of delicate trimming scissors from his grooming kit and the small, curious crest Fenris had given him, the red inlay nearly rubbed off, tying it tightly. Fenris stared at his hands, brows twisted, and he made a short, anxious noise when Dorian tucked the package away in a lower cubby by the pitchfork and spare shoes he figured belonged to the stable boy. The mage rushed back to his feet, dusting off his knees, and when he found Fenris staring, he only lifted his brows. “I’ll explain later. Just -” He went to gesture to Fenris’ horse, and faltered to see the state of the beast. Head drooping, the poor thing looked _exhausted_ , and certainly not up for a midnight sprint.

“ _Damn_.” Fenris whispered from behind him, and Dorian muttered the same sentiment.

But the gelding was not the only other horse. “Just - _pick_ one.” He said suddenly, and Fenris turned to shoot him a ludicrous stare. “They can have our horse. Coin, too, if you want to leave it. I’m sure we’re losing on the trade, just...” He rolled his hands, urging the elf into motion even as he grabbed the base of the mare’s mane, using the stall partition to hoist himself up onto her back, foregoing the saddle in favor of haste. “ _Festina, Fenris.”_

Fenris made another noise, heaving the bags up onto his shoulders again, and Dorian looked to the doors, the clamoring getting closer. They must only be a few streets away.

He couldn’t wait. But he _could_ distract them away while Fenris got ready. He tightened his knees and tapped at the mare’s ribs to urge her forward. Fenris had left the door open wide enough he could slip through, and he could just - “Go on, get one ready. Steal a saddle for me - _might as well_.” He shot when Fenris made another face. “I'll distract them for a while. Meet me north of the city; off the main road to the east, there’s an abandoned chantry. Decrepit, half collapsed - you can’t miss it.” He’d been curious about the structure, when he’d visited years ago; besides the catacombs, Nevarra’s penchant for clinging to death even when it came to the buildings of the past was endearing, and it had always intrigued him. Still a pity that he would miss a second chance to really take it in.

He pulled at the crisp mane in his fingers when Fenris bolted into his way. “ _Fasta vass, what -”_

 _“What are you doing?”_ Fenris spat, scowling.

“Oh, I don’t know, throwing myself out to the wolves?” The mage said lightly, and his heart skipped at the thought. But they needed _time_ . He waved an arm, trying to get Fenris out of the way, and then nudged at his horse, intent on _moving_ the elf if need be. Neither thing happened.

“We shouldn't split-” the warrior started, but the clamour of armoured men down the road pulled their attention away again. He still had not moved.

“Pick a horse. Tack it up. I’ll find you outside the city.” Dorian said one last time, impatience sharp on his tongue. He went to push forward, and Fenris caught the mare by the chest. The spirit inhabiting the body, apparently, wasn’t going to shove him out of the way. “Damn it all, Fenris, _move._ I’m trying to protect you.”

The warrior’s mouth dropped open, brows furrowing. He paused, shut his mouth, and Dorian watched the way the muscle tensed as he clenched his jaw.

Then he stepped aside.

The mage kicked the mare in the ribs, fingers tight in what was left of her mane as he took to the streets. Rounding the corner to find six men in armor tromping towards the inn, and drew in the mare’s mane. He was instantly a focus to the guards, and when he didn't stop when shouted at, he was the perfect target to chase down for questioning.

 _Sparkler_ , Varric had called him.

All flash, no heat. No more innocent men had to die tonight.

A flare of fire to catch their attention, and their shouting grew more panicked, more urgent. “ _Apostate!_ ” one of them screamed, as though the Mage-Templar war had never happened, and it would be Circles and men in armor emblazoned with flaming swords for the remainder of his days, but it was an effective rallying cry all the same. A wall of fire to route them away from the inn, a burst of light, and it was a near guarantee that they would not be looking for the elf quietly stealing a horse out of the stables.

He just had to keep it up, lead them further away, and then lose them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaagggggghhhhhh we're getting to the good parts I'm so excited you guys.
> 
> COLE. YOU BIG DEWEY-EYED MONSTER. i luv you. IS THIS THE LAST TIME HE MAKES AN APPEARANCE? Who knows? Definitely not me.  
> NO SERIOUSLY I AM SO EXCITED TO TAKE THIS TO TEVINTER. BBBLLLAAAGHL.
> 
> As always, thank you for reading! Comments and kudos are always so appreciated!


	23. Posteaquam

The mare’s burnt hooves pounded against the soft ground, over brambles and roots, more agile than her proper soul had ever been. The darkness of the woods outside the city had swallowed them, and left behind was the sound of shouting, the lighting of lamps and torches. Concentrating on the pull of the fade, a quick haste spell ensured that the chase fell farther and farther behind. Thick trunks and low branches offered more than enough cover for him to disappear from any wide range of sight, and the ground muted his steps.

Still, though, it was not quiet that settled over Dorian’s mind. His head was still spinning.  _ Murder. Traitor. Blood magic. _ They hadn't even reached Tevinter and already he was made out to be someone to hunt. Someone to  _ hate _ . While that might make convincing the Venatori a little easier, it awoke that swirling, gnawing blackness that he'd managed to quash down for days, and every horrible  _ what if _ began to play out in his head.

_ Focus. _ He swore at himself, fingers tightening in his horse’s rough mane. If Leliana planned far enough ahead to frame him so, she  _ had _ to have a plan to right it, once he succeeded. Of course she would.

Wouldn’t she?

Dorian had never really thought of himself as a pessimist, but he did not feel assured. He nudged the horse faster through the trees and brush, winding around the city and northward, hoping he’d catch sight of the highway before dawn. He counted every second until he spotted the ruined columns of stone and wood that he’d sent Fenris riding blindly toward. The chapel itself must have been either ancient or besieged; the thick stone columns that made up its supports were barely columns any longer, but the steeple stood, a stubborn thing the color of sand against the night sky, and Dorian sped towards it, hoping his instructions had been clear enough.

There. A streak of white, only just visible before darting back around the ruined chapel.

Pushing his feet forward and sitting his weight back against creaking bones as he came around the corner, Dorian blinked, and the mare came to a shallow stop. 

Fenris caught sight of him, shuffled, and then turned to continue their journey, unburdened with the saddle that Dorian vaguely remembered asking for. The mage, however, was preoccupied with something else.

“All that and you take a  _ grey horse _ ?” Dorian was almost laughing. It was too absurd. The  _ least  _ inconspicuous kind of mount, and Fenris had taken  _ that one _ . They’d nearly been caught, there were  _ assassins _ after them, and Fenris goes and picks a horse that is a beacon even in the dark of night. Adrenaline was coursing through his system, and Dorian  _ did  _ laugh, when everything became too much. Fenris hissed at him, saying something like it wouldn’t help, and Dorian only laughed harder.

Fenris wheeled the horse and slid off in an instant, and Dorian glanced over his shoulder, his lungs on fire, his face stretched into a manic grin. He heeled his horse into turning, shifting his weight until it came to another shuddering stop, and slid off for himself.

He didn't expect the gauntleted fists grabbing by the collar of his cloak and  _ throwing him _ into a dying fir. The tree cracked behind his spine, and he was thankful for the thick wool that probably saved his skin from the rough sound of the spines catching at the fabric, but all he could do was keep laughing, breathless.

“What were you  _ thinking _ ?” Fenris growled, and pulled him away again, shoving the mage another time to stumble over his own feet toward the horses. The grey snorted, shuffling backward, but seemed calmer than the previous gelding had been. The mare wheezed, and remained deathly still. Fenris was a sharp figure against the dim of the night, the dappled starlight falling through the canopy in shades of blue and green, contrasting sharply with the reflected shade of Fenris’ eyes. Dorian was reminded of a cat, large and imposing and circling on its prey, mesmerizing it with that mirrored gold. When the warrior stalked closer again and seized his clothes another time, Dorian caught his breath, hands snapping to catch at Fenris’ fists, the metal of the gauntlets biting into his skin.

“Fenris,” He said, trying to catch his breath.

“You could have been caught.” The elf growled, barely over a whisper, and Dorian couldn't help it; he smiled behind another breath of a laugh that was succinctly shaken out of him. “You could have gotten yourself  _ killed _ .”

“I wasn’t,” He mumbled, fingers tightening around Fenris’ own.

“ _ Why. _ ” The warrior was hissing, pressing in close, and Dorian gripped harder at the fingers in his fists, licking his lips and trying to catch his breath. The gauntlets tightened, and he heard the puncture of each clawed tip through the folded wool over his shoulders. “ _ Why  _ would you play the bait?”

“To protect you?” Dorian exhaled, and managed to hold back the manic release of breath that the adrenaline still wanted to push forward. There had been a close call - too close, if he hadn't remembered the theory for force magic and thrown a stack of crates to block the alley behind him. The horse was not quiet, nor overly fast. But by the time the guard had pulled together their own mounted men, the edge of the city was behind him. He wasn't sure if they'd put forth the effort in chasing them beyond their own cities walls, but he certainly wasn't about to push his luck. “We needed a distraction,” He swallowed and met those furious eyes, a shaking smile pulling at his lips. “I.. Can be very distracting.”

“You...  _ Idiot _ mage,” The warrior’s nostrils flared, just for a moment, and then his fists were shoving at Dorian again, but he held on. “I do not need your protection.” His tone dripped frustration, and Dorian found his mouth twitching upward a little more genuinely.  

“Is this the part where I tell you that I’m going to try, anyways?”

Fenris half scowled at him, but the look was softening by the breath. “Idiot.” He said again.

Dorian’s thumb brushed absently against Fenris’ knuckles, and Fenris glanced down at the motion, his features tight. “I think the phrase you’re looking for is ‘thank you’.” Dorian exhaled, and at Fenris’ short, startled crack of laughter, he grinned.

“Fuck you.” Was what came out of the warrior’s mouth instead, but Dorian couldn’t keep his cheeks from pulling his grin wider. The biting tone was absent, replaced instead with something less volatile, less angry - he had a hard time trying to pinpoint it. Exasperated. Thrilled. Caught off guard. Relieved. It seemed Fenris was just as torn apart by the rush of adrenaline as he was, and the boneless feeling of it draining from his own system left Dorian feeling dizzy, short of breath, so very  _ alive _ .

And Fenris was so close that Dorian could feel his exhale; see the ghost of a smile twitching at his lips despite the furrow of his brow.

He didn’t know what came over him. What was  _ wrong _ with him. His rushing pulse, his half-empty lungs,  _ euphoria _ had Dorian seizing Fenris by either side of his jaw, the warrior tensing suddenly even while he was pulling the mage closer, as though on instinct. The adrenaline mixed with the anxiousness lingering in Fenris’ expression made Dorian stupid, and suddenly nothing in the world was quite as important, right in that moment, than getting in close. Their bodies met at the hands, the mouths, and when Fenris bit suddenly at his lip, Dorian could do little more than gasp.

_ They got away _ .

Fenris dug into his shoulders, and Dorian realized too late what he was doing. He stuttered, inhaled, and  _ swore _ under his breath, but the warrior’s fingers were still caught in his cloak, the tips of his gauntlets biting through the thick fabric to keep him close. He managed to pull his face away from Fenris’ own, but didn’t get much farther than that with the warrior’s grip; with his own, fingers brushing against the fine, short hair at the base of Fenris’ skull.

Their eyes met, caught, while their breath tangled between them.

“Did you lose them?”

“I think so.” Dorian answered, a little breathless. His gaze was stuck on the elf, and Fenris exhaled, finally unclenching his fingers from Dorian’s clothes. “I mean, I haven’t heard them since the city border...” He glanced back and over his shoulder, as if they might appear now that he’d mentioned them out loud. A breath, two, and no shouts echoed down the road. Perhaps the hunt for free mages really was winding down.

“Don't do anything that stupid again.” Fenris said suddenly, brows twisted, his eyes dark and worried - and Dorian laughed, his breath barely in his lungs before it was expelled again. 

Before he could agree, or deny, or swear to obey, Fenris was leaning forward, and Dorian was closing the space between them. The press of his mouth was even more brief than the first time, but the elf did not let up on his grip, and Dorian tipped forward while Fenris tucked his chin away from his seeking mouth. “Mage,” He said, softly, and even the bitter nickname didn’t hold the venom Dorian had come to expect in it. His heart beat erratically in his chest, his own fingers tightening around Fenris’ wrists. “This... This  _ cannot _ mean anything. And it ends. When we reach the border, it ends.”

Dorian stared at him. Oh, and the way that was phrased, as though it might happen  _ again _ before the border had Dorian’s heart pounding in his chest, accelerated by the way Fenris’ fingers twisted into his clothes and nullifying the first half of what Fenris had said, the part that had hurt before lust soothed it over. Of course it couldn’t mean anything; Dorian was optimistic, not delusional. With the lingering acceptance of their situation, with a nod, a sweep of his tongue over his lips, he pulled Fenris closer by the plate of his chest armor and sealed their mouths together. He couldn't promise it in return. Not out loud - and he didn't want to think about what that might mean.

Fenris’ body was hot against his own, planes of hard muscle and rough skin under layers of cool, sharp steel. Dorian moaned when the elf rolled his hips, cock stirring in his trousers. “Kaffas, Fenris-” he broke off with a gasp, and the elf exhaled against his jaw, pressing his fingers to the mage's cheek to have him turn back toward him, swallowing his breath with another kiss. The fingers slid from his jaw, behind the base of his skull, tangling into the hair that Dorian had stopped bothering to tie back. A sharp grip had him tipping his head up, and Dorian gasped again, groaning openly and pushing his hips forward while Fenris dragged his mouth down over his chin to exhale wetly against his throat.

The warrior’s fingers gained momentum, gripping at what he could through Dorian’s clothes, ripping at the buckles around his waist, and he met Fenris’ shaking, eager breath with his own. But then Fenris stopped, breath catching in his throat, and Dorian’s own body was singing, desperate. Were they stopping?  _ Why were they stopping?  _

When Fenris seized his clothes again, this time to hurriedly lace and buckle them back together, Dorian thought he might scream. He reached out without thinking, without  _ ever _ thinking, it seemed, when it came to this elf - and even though his hand came around Fenris’ elbows and the warrior stopped, he was at a loss for what to do next.

He knew what he  _ wanted _ to do.

This damnable elf; he was caustic, and cold, and  _ vibrant and hot _ all at once. Dorian was a moth, helplessly diving toward the fire that would likely consume him, and he could not think of a place he’d rather be, despite the chill of the night and the smell of rotten wood, old stone, the adrenaline still pumping through every nerve.

“It isn’t...” Fenris started, and his voice betrayed him, cracking off into silence in the dark. “This is not the time.” He said, as though Dorian spoke through his grip on the warrior’s arm, and maybe he  _ did, _ but there was no helping it. “But when this is done,” Fenris murmured. Dorian shuddered on an inhale. “After,” He said, like a promise, and Dorian found his pulse quickening while Fenris leaned a little closer. Allowed him to press in for another kiss. “...  _ After. _ ” The elf breathed again, his fingers tightening while the mage lifted his hands, thumbs dragging across Fenris’ jaw.

_ After _ , as though taking down the Venatori was something feasibly done with a due date in mind. Dorian swallowed, but nodded all the same, and Fenris lingered, dark eyes heavy and full of a thought that Dorian knew would never be put to words even before the elf pulled away. The sharp tips of the warrior’s gauntlets twitched away, and with a nominal amount of effort, Dorian held himself still while Fenris extracted himself from the mage’s hold, breath shaking from between his lips.

_ The border _ , his fevered mind reminded him.  _ We have until Tevinter. _

“We should go.” Fenris whispered, and Dorian found that the warrior had said the phrase entirely too often in one night. Maybe, in this mythical  _ after _ , they wouldn’t have to keep running from whatever monster was on their tail at any given moment.

That didn’t mean that Fenris was anything but absolutely right for  _ right now _ , however, as much as Dorian didn’t want to admit it. The guards might be following. Searching. He’d gone and thrown fire like a light-show in the night sky, drawing every wandering zealous templar and ignorant citizen with a pitchfork and a torch towards Cumberland; by daylight, the woods would probably be crawling with them.

Who knew when dawn would break, and they had to be as far from here as possible by then.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for such the long wait on this one! I was trying to put together a monster chapter together, but the scenes weren't agreeing with one another and the second one needs mooore work than I want to make you wait for! SO YES. PROGRESS. Aaahhhhhh thank you for all the wonderful comments and support for Sanguis so far. You guys are amazing! I hope you enjoy this chapter~!!


	24. The Silent Plains

It was official.

Dorian never wanted to travel through the Silent Plains while halfway on the lam ever again.

If it came right down to it... He  _ almost _ might get on a boat instead.

He’d forgotten how difficult it could be, travelling through empty wastes without the comforts of an army at your back. Without anything to hunt and supplement their supply, the Silent Plains had nearly drained the both of them of whatever food they had left. They had taken to travelling during the night, and spent the days hiding under whatever outcropping would offer them shelter from the beating sun and trying to get some sleep. Between the heat, the light, wandering darkspawn and the varghests... It hadn’t gone well. But on the horizon - and perhaps it was a mirage, but he could  _ dream _ \- he thought he saw the edge of the blighted plains as they set up camp in the morning. Fenris had picked out the spot, half-covered by a dugout created by something larger than either of them. Dorian hoped the darkspawn had gotten to it, and it wouldn’t be coming back. 

Then again, that meant that the darkspawn might come back.

Fenris lead his horse down the shallow incline while Dorian lingered, staring off at the horizon; if they kept going through the day they might even make it before the next nightfall, but heavy eyelids told him what a poor idea that was. No matter how tempting the green-gold line of actual,  _ proper _ grassland sitting on the horizon was, they’d have one hell of a time trying to cross the last leg of the wastes with the sun beating down on them and exhaustion creeping in it the edges of their vision.

With a deep inhale to grasp at the remnants of his wakefulness, Dorian let his eyes pull away from the distance to settle on Fenris’ back.

With every night spent going forward, Dorian found himself catching every glimpse of the warrior that he thought he could get away with. Sometimes, he’d catch Fenris watching  _ him _ when he did so, and it had yet to fail that his heart would pick up a beat when those eyes locked onto his own. 

It certainly didn’t help with the phantom promise of  _ after _ ringing low and tempting in his ears.

Dorian bit back an aggravated sigh when Fenris glanced at him, and then away again. For days after Cumberland, they had bounced around the meaning of  _ after _ . Rather, Dorian had asked for a little clarification and all he ever got out of the elf on the subject was a hard look and  _ after _ , all over again. He'd given up long before they even reached the Silent Plains. They slept in shifts during the day, and silent travel after dark didn't leave a lot of time for forcing the issue - which, really, might have been the warrior’s plan anyways. They'd made much better time, this way, but certainly at the cost of a little of Dorian’s sanity.

Now, with the matter of their dwindling rations, the ever present possibility of heatstroke, and the looming presence of the blight upon the land, this  _ whatever this was _ with Fenris had to be put to the further reaches of his mind. He had more important things to focus on, like making sure the heat did not do away with them before the Venatori could.

But then, the Venatori were another problem in and of themselves. 

Dorian huffed out a low breath, and nudged his horse towards the dugout. Wandering minds did nothing for their scheduled watches. Maker forbid he cease  _ thinking _ long enough to fall asleep before the stifling heat of day made even breathing difficult. 

But then Fenris was stretching in his saddle, arms up and over his head before taking a deep breath, and Dorian’s eyes were stuck on the backs of his shoulders. “...I can’t believe I’ve landed myself into this.” The elf said from between his teeth, his stretch pushing the air from his lungs, and the short tone had Dorian pulling his eyes to focus on Fenris’ profile as he turned. It had been the first thing he’d said all night, and the sound of his voice was... Distracting.

As was the way Fenris ran his fingers through his hair, dusting out whatever the blazing winds had blown into his scalp for the day. Dorian remembered, briefly, what the strands felt like between his fingers. He fumbled for words when he was silent for too long and the warrior glanced his way.  “You and me both.” He half-smiled, cleared his throat, and tried to roll the stiffness from his shoulders, a half-attempt at making it look like he had not just been caught looking.

Again.

“You?” Fenris snorted, fingers halting. “You know why  _ you _ are here. When we met, you could do little else but spout off about Tevinter and what it  _ could _ be. You’re perfect for this role.”

“I'd take that as a compliment if I was allowed to go about it the way I'd hoped to. I had no plans of even pretending civility with the Venatori.” Dorian replied, and Fenris made a short noise that he couldn't reasonably imagine was understanding. It only served to remind him of just how far they had to go. Dorian watched him a moment, and when Fenris turned back to the dugout, he swallowed. “While you might think every Tevinter mage takes pride in what Tevinter has become, that is not the case. You  _ know _ , better than any Southerner, just what we are being sent to do.”

Fenris huffed air from his nostrils. “I seem to know that better than  _ you _ .” He said shortly, and Dorian felt his spine tighten as he straightened up. Fenris unseated himself from the saddle, feet blowing up a cloud of dead soil, and did not even cast Dorian a brief glance before reaching to loosen the gelding’s tack.

Dorian scoffed, and he thought he saw the twitch of a smirk pulling at the elf’s features before finally swinging his leg over the mare’s rump to land on the hard ground. His thighs were sore enough to warrant him planting his hands on his knees to bend, just for a moment, to stretch them and hiss out a few curses between his teeth. By the time he straightened up again, Fenris’ smirk had died away. The short, easy jabs had grown fewer and father between, but still, every once in awhile, Fenris would say something that set Dorian’s teeth on edge, and it was beginning to dawn on him that this was how Fenris might  _ cope _ , so he tried to let it slide. “If that’s the case, I can see precisely why it was  _ you _ they sent for.” He said, and received a sharp look over the gelding’s spine for the comment. 

Dorian returned the stare, shoulders tipping back in defiance, mood sobering while he inhaled, and tried to explain.

“You... Are everything about Tevinter that I turned a blind eye to. The abuses of magic. The suffering of slaves. I thought, not even that long ago, that slavery was better than what they did with elves in the South. It wouldn’t be so difficult to have others believe that I’d use you for my own purpose.” He adjusted his weight, stepped away from the risen horse, and broke eye contact before setting fidgeting hands against the back of his neck with a breath. “Nor for the one woman who  _ knows _ better to think that you would allow that country to keep you, if I fail in this.”

No - Fenris would see Tevinter burn to the ground, first, and probably do a decent job of it before he’d be taken down.

But the admission brought on a silence of the sort Dorian wasn’t expecting. Full, expectant, as though Fenris might be waiting for him to say something else. To brush it off with a joke or a witty phrase. Dorian had the heart for neither, and so after another moment, Fenris landed him with a peculiar look, brows twitching together. “Do you think that you will fail?” He asked, but when Dorian looked to his face his expression spoke volumes more than the simple question. The mage laughed, sharp and short, his lips twitching upward in a smile that couldn’t reach his eyes. 

“Well, I certainly hope not. I like breathing.”

The elf frowned. Dorian’s smile eventually fell flat, and Fenris only frowned more deeply, looking as though he might actually put what was on his mind to words. Dorian inhaled, and waited. Fenris remained facing his horse for a while, his hands wrapped around the billet straps of his saddle, the muscles in his jaw twitching for a moment before he opened his mouth. “...If you no longer believe in your cause,” He said, slow and quiet. “Now would be the time to say so.”

The way in which he said so was so  _ ultimate _ that Dorian thought for half a second that it might be a real option, before remembering the stakes. He had half a mind to quip with sarcasm, as he would with any other, but Fenris had little patience for him when Dorian started putting up fronts. 

With anyone else, Dorian might not have cared.

The fact that it happened often enough already that Dorian had started to notice the elf’s reaction notwithstanding, the knowledge held his tongue.

Fenris had his anger, and Dorian had his avoidance. They certainly were a pair.

“It’s... No, I believe in Tevinter. I  _ do _ believe that it can become something great. Something  _ better _ than it was - than it  _ is _ .” What was it about this elf that tore down every self-assured defense Dorian had ever put up? And why was he having such a difficult time rebuilding them around him? With a brittle intake of air, he turned his eyes away from the elf while Fenris removed the saddle and set about getting their bedrolls, moving to spread them across the shallow pit.  Dorian followed absently, the pause serving as an effective stall for the mage to come up with how he wanted to word his thoughts. “I do want to see change in the Imperium. I just... I don't know if I am the best candidate to put forward - or that I will be, when this is done.”

“Stop defeating yourself.” Fenris’ voice was blunt and sudden, cutting into Dorian’s thoughts.

The mage lifted his eyes in surprise to find Fenris watching him, brows dark and furrowed, crouched over the one mat he’d managed to roll out. The warrior stood, half-scowling, tearing his eyes away from Dorian before letting out a great exhale, dragging his fingers over his scalp. “Do you really have so little an opinion of yourself that you think this will  _ change _ you?”

Dorian startled, and managed a small scowl, but his hands shook before he hid them in crossed arms. “Well,  _ no _ , I -”

“Then prove it to me.” Fenris interrupted, turning  to lock eyes again with the mage.

“-What?” Dorian sputtered, and his arms tightened across his chest in reflex. Something in the way Fenris pushed the topic had Dorian’s hackles rising. The nerves that Fenris’ near-week-long silence had rubbed raw sang in outrage, that someone was doubting his ability when only  _ he _ was allowed to do that, and defensive words were quick to fall, harsh and sharp from his tongue. “I don't have to prove a damned thing-”

“So you’re a man made up of nothing but lofty words and fronts? Do you have  _ nothing _ to prove?” Fenris’ face had taken on the sort of hard as stone expression that warned Dorian he was looking for a fight. The mage nearly wondered out loud where the elf got all this energy for confrontation, but Fenris’ eyes - sharp and volatile, focused entirely on him - had his throat growing tight.

Dorian inhaled, and held that gaze. When Fenris straightened up, fingers flexing in his gauntlets, Dorian faltered, and the warrior advanced. “I... I don't-”

“I said  _ prove it _ .” Fenris snapped, palms pushing against Dorian’s chest suddenly enough that the mage had to catch himself by shifting his feet. “Or was it all an act? Is the proud Dorian Pavus a  _ liar _ , after all?”

Fenris shoved him again.  _ Hard _ .

The mage stumbled back, swearing, and shot forward with a snarl. “ _ Fuck  _ you. You think the place needs to be set aflame. What do you need me to  _ convince  _ you of?” He shoved back at the elf, and Fenris took it, stepping back, letting Dorian push at him again while his aggravation came to a broil. “Are you  _ trying _ to make me angry with you?” He snarled,  _ tired _ , and Fenris’ defiant eyes screamed  _ yes _ . 

Fenris exhaled loudly through his nose, and flexed his fingers again, the plates of his gauntlets scraping against one another.

“ _ Fasta vass-”  _ Dorian swore and advanced, grabbing Fenris by each side of his breastplate to - well, he hadn’t thought that far ahead, and so just gripped at it and shoved, but did not let go. “What do you want from me? I - I can't  _ give  _ you the memories of Tevinter that I have, Fenris. The ones worth keeping.” His gut dropped, and the green of Fenris’ eyes in the dim morning was vehement, but the warrior did nothing to brush him off. The mage’s mouth opened, shut, and while the darkness rolling around his inside curled and whispered ugly things, he tried to keep his head up. “Because you know as well as I do that some  _ terrible  _ things happen right under our noses and I don't  _ want  _ to keep the same blind eye turned that I have for my whole life. If I go back there,  _ everything _ will stand out in stark detail and I am going to be seeing the worst of it, the  _ absolute worst - _ with the company I will be keeping, it will be  _ expected _ . I want nothing more than to wipe the Venatori off the  _ map _ and yet I am going to be attending soirees and luncheons and wine tastings with the bastards.”His fists shook, and he couldn’t hold them still, so only held on tighter while he took in a sharp breath. “I am going to roll around in Tevinter’s darkest underbelly and I’m afraid that what I see will not be  _ salvageable _ .”

Fenris caught the fists that Dorian held his armor with, holding still, his grip steady, but his stare remained unforgiving. Dorian was a fraction of a second away from breaking eye contact when the warrior finally spoke, his voice low and sharp as granite.  “Then that is why you need to see it.”

“-What?” Dorian startled, his exhale shaking, and while he tried to release his hold on the elf, Fenris only held tighter.

“You would rather not know what truly goes on? To hang on to your deluded views of a country that has been chin-deep in blood for _ eons _ , because you do not want to  _ see _ it?” The muscles in Fenris’ jaw were alive, clenching and grinding with the effort, presumably, not to chew Dorian up and spit him out. “Is your determination that shakeable? That once your eyes are opened, you will simply give up?”

Dorians shoulders sank, and his breath shuddered. He closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, Fenris was closer still. “That is not so simple.”

“Nothing is simple,” Fenris returned, and closed the space between them.  His face was only a few inches from Dorian’s own, close and unavoidable, even if this was not a topic Dorian really had the heart to be breaching at the moment. “You want to save Tevinter? You will have to accept what it has done. So prove it to me. Speak about it with the same passion - the same fire you had in you, that night, when you made me believe that maybe,  _ just maybe _ , there was something about Tevinter  _ worth _ fighting for.”

Dorian tried again to pull away, and again, Fenris held on. His lungs clenched, and the mage swore softly. “Why should I have to prove anything? Why do I need to  _ validate _ myself to you?”

“Perhaps because I need to hear it.” Fenris spat back, and Dorian faltered. 

“I don't - I am not the sort of man that proves himself to anyone  _ but himself _ , Fenris-”

“Why?” The elf interrupted suddenly, and Dorian let his mouth fall shut. The edge in Fenris’ tone, the curve of his body - he was going  to fight, and fight  _ hard,  _ for the answers he was seeking. “Do you think you owe nothing to anyone? You are a product of millennia of slavery and privilege. If you think you owe nothing to those your countrymen have wronged, despite the redeemable souls among them, you have a  _ rude _ awakening ahead of you, Altus. I want you to  _ prove _ to me -” he inhaled, and Dorian stared, caught in the warrior’s momentum. “Prove to  _ yourself _ that you want change; that you will w _ ork _ for it.  _ Fight _ for it.  _ Kill _ for it, if you have to. This is all for nothing if you do not want this enough to be able to prove it.”

He stared, and Fenris glared at him for a long breath before jerking his gaze away, and shoved Dorian’s hands, finally, from his armor. Dorian made a short, frustrated noise, stumbling back a step while his fingers flew up to drag  through his hair, thumbs pressing in circles against his temples. “I  _ do,  _ I just... What Leliana is asking, what she is  _ expecting _ -”

“That woman probably wishes you to  _ become _ the monster she has written you out to be, if you cannot pretend it.” Fenris muttered and Dorian froze, even if the dread curled around every bone had already told him that would be what would happen, in the end. 

He took in a silent breath, and dropped his arms, helpless.

“I don't...  _ Maker _ . I don't want that.”

“So do not.” Fenris said with a finality, an  _ easiness _ that Dorian was not expecting. He laughed, sharp and short, nearly entirely at how  _ simple _ the elf made the whole thing sound. As though there would be no temptation hanging in front of him over the next long months, that  _ ‘no’  _ was accepted at face value. “Don’t worry,” Fenris said into the dim, after a silence that had not made Dorian feel any better. “If you truly  _ do _ become a man such as that... I will tear your heart out.” 

As it was, all Dorian could do was stare, and the warrior was silent for nearly long enough that he began to panic. He didn’t know what he expected – though it was certainly not the harsh, even tone that he was presented with, the threat, clean and clipped, that Fenris would do it without flinching, despite everything.

He did not think, not for even a second, that Fenris was lying.

The threat, the  _ promise _ hung heavy in the air, and Dorian shuffled back another step, the breath rushing out of his lungs. When Fenris moved forward, he took another step back, and the elf stopped, brows twitching into a frown as he relaxed his shoulders, and Dorian clenched his fists. “...I'm going to say this once.” Fenris said slowly, an edge to his voice that warned Dorian not to push his luck. No more games, no jokes, no playing this all off to make it easier to defuse later. Dorian swallowed, and watched as the warrior crossed his arms in front of himself. His gaze flicked back and forth, hesitating before settling on somewhere around Dorian’s elbow. “I... Do not think you are an evil man.”

“But also not a  _ good _ one,” Dorian quipped without thinking, fingers still clenched into fists. The remark earned him a sharp glance, and Fenris went on after a heavy but short bout of silence in which Dorian managed to keep his tongue bit.

“This is not something a good man can accomplish.” Fenris said, shoulders rising defensively. The lyrium in his skin grew a little brighter with agitation, and while it grew dim with a long breath, Dorian found his eyes lingering on the marks across the elf’s throat, following them up to his chin.  ”Tevinter  _ eats _ good men alive.  _ You _ , though... You may just be able to start something.”

Dorian’s eyes paused on his lips, and the twitch of muscle in the warrior’s cheek. He couldn’t finish the ascent to meet Fenris’ eyes. His breath escaped him in a solid, forced puff of laughter. “ _ Well. Something.  _ That’s better than nothing, I suppose.”

“ _ Your glibness does you no credit _ .” The elf’s tone turned quick and sharp again, and Dorian shut his mouth, dropping his weight back on his heels. Fenris flexed his fingers, brows furrowed, and he unlatched his sword from his back, dropping it into the silty dirt without much in the way of care. A muscle in his cheek jumped, and Fenris made a point not to look at him again, working his gauntlets loose. “Must you powder everything you say with insincerity? I am  _ trying  _ to-” He trailed off into a frustrated growl.

Dorian felt a stab of guilt. He loosened his knuckles, bit at the inside of his cheek, and let out a long breath. “Sorry,” He managed, “It’s... Automatic.”

“It’s annoying.” Fenris corrected, and despite himself, the Altus found himself snorting. The warrior straightened his spine, and Dorian managed to keep his mouth shut long enough for him to drag his fingers up through his hair, adjusting the tie before dropping his arms heavily to his sides, resigned. “I want to believe you. But I need to know that you will not only dismiss the worst of Tevinter. The  _ worst _ of it is what will fight back the hardest. I will follow you. But I will not fight against it alone.”  

“I had no intentions of leaving you to do it alone.” Dorian licked his lips against the rising heat of the morning, and exhaled. He tried to think of something more to say, but Fenris was faster.

“Perhaps you hadn’t planned on it being this way. Do you think  _ I _ planned on this?” The elf snorted, and Dorian’s lips fell apart, but the words dripped rhetorical and really there probably was no safe response to the question. He very nearly let loose another snide remark, but the tense set of Fenris’ shoulders had Dorian catching his tongue in time. He inhaled, tried to think of something, and managed little more than balling his fingers up into fists. At his continued silence, Fenris went on. “And despite that, here I am, at your back and ready to defend it with my life, as long as I can believe that you are true in your intentions.” The warrior shuffled back, sizing Dorian up with his gaze. “You’ve made me hope that you can do this. Is it so difficult for you to believe that I  _ want _ you to succeed?”

“Yes?” Dorian blurted out, finally, bewildered at both his inability to brush this off and Fenris’ sudden openness. His chest felt tight, as though something was building up, about to explode. Fenris licked his lips in frustration, and let out and exhale long enough that the Altus wound up holding his own breath.

“ _ Te exhauserimus me, _ ” Fenris exhaled, and Dorian pinched his lips shut. “Despite Tevinter’s darkness.  _ Despite  _ everything you will have to fight to overcome it. Do you  _ want  _ to save Tevinter, and those who made it precious to you?”

“More than anything.” Dorian breathed, and it seemed to be what the tightness in his chest was waiting for. A weight, dark and heavy, jostled and broke loose, but did not come out as an insult or harsh words. He inhaled, and felt lighter. Lighter still, when Fenris stepped closer into his space, toe to toe, and the mage didn’t feel the need to retreat. With the morning light chasing away the golden sheen of Fenris’ night eyes, Dorian saw that vibrant green boring into his own. The wolf’s gaze twitched, moved,  _ examined, _ and Dorian wondered if he was simply looking, or searching for something a little deeper in Dorian’s eyes.

“If this succeeds... Tevinter could change. The  _ world _ might change. Everything in this is riding on the fact that we must be believable. You may not want to become the monster -  _ I _ ...” The elf exhaled, and Dorian swallowed, his nails digging into his palms. “The Ventori must believe that you are truly one of them. In order to convince them, you  _ will _ have to do inexcusable things. You know that.”

Dorian nearly choked on an inhale. The lump in his throat was harder to swallow than he’d like to admit. “I know.” He managed, in barely more than a whisper.

It wasn’t something he wanted to accept; he’d been pushing that thought behind him for weeks. 

Fenris let out a long breath,  and Dorian found himself quietly damning the light of day creeping in on them. The heat came with it, and he would very much have preferred crawling into a dark hole after a conversation like this to sort his own head out. “If you wish it...” The elf finally began, hesitant and quiet and so very unlike what Dorian had grown used to from him that it pulled his attention immediately. “If you wish to pass for a man such as that  _ without _ becoming it... I can show you.”

_ Show him _ . Like vileness and putrid character were as easy to teach as which fork to pick up for the salad. Dorian almost scoffed, but at the set of Fenris’ shoulders, at the grim line of his mouth, the furrow of his brow, the  _ intensity _ of his gaze - the breath never left his throat.

Fenris had been a slave.

While he looked at him, the mage slowly came to terms with the fact that Fenris must know horribly well just what it was to be in the company of men like the Venatori. The  _ kind  _ of man that they would expect Dorian to be. His throat grew tight, and it was his turn to stretch out the quiet as far as it could go while Fenris stood quiet and still, waiting. 

“What if I can't?” Dorian finally breathed, and Fenris’ fingers twitched.

Another frown twisted at the warrior’s features, but it was... Complicated. Distant.  _ Sad _ . “If you truly think that you cannot, then we are both dead men,” Fenris said lowly, and his eyes turned away. “It was over before we even started.”

Later, when camp was set, Fenris’ eyes on the horizon in silence, Dorian spent a long time staring at his back, the weight in his gut gnawing more insistently at his insides than ever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope the monstrous chapter makes up for the wait! Thank you as always for reading, commenting, and leaving kudos! ALL OF THESE THINGS GIVE ME LIIIIIFE.  
> (I love all your faces. <3 I’ll drum up some forgiveness art or something for this... what is this, WAS THIS SERIOUSLY TWO MONTHS. HOLY F- omg u guys i am a wooooorm i am definitely gonna try and get some art in for the next chapter if i can find a scene i want to illustrate.)


	25. Incepere

Vol Dorma glittered in the distance of the evening, glittering against the darkening sky like a jewel, a beacon to welcome every weary traveler, and  _ Maker _ , was he weary. 

“Ready?” Dorian asked eventually, voice quiet, as though the city might hear him if he were any louder.  

The grasses of the plains in Southern Tevinter were long enough to sweep at their feet even on horseback, lush and caught in the green-gold of the season just before the harvest. The Silent Plains had been left behind days ago, but the long silences it had left between them had lingered. Fenris said little, waiting, and Dorian had not taken him up on the offer of mentorship to become the evil Tevinter mage every good Southerner thought he’d been. Leliana wanted him to become the monster. Dorian intended on doing his best  _ not _ to. He heard Fenris take in a deep, long breath, and turned to see him nod once, resolute. 

“As I'll ever be, I suppose. You're not, though.” The elf returned, and the statement left Dorian's mouth a little drier, and from no fault of the air. 

“Fenris...” he faltered, and fell quiet with a sharp breath. He knew the elf had not offered his help lightly - he didn’t think Fenris did much of  _ anything _ lightly - and in a few more hours, and they would have to  _ live _ the Act. Every action would be scrutinized. Dorian had never been quiet about how Tevinter could do  _ better _ . He’d also never been quiet about  _ how _ it could do so, in leaving relics of the past behind, and he’d pushed for a turning of a new leaf for the Imperium. Now he was returned, and meant to say the exact opposite, which would raise eyebrows in the best of circumstances. Better yet, to make things even more complicated, there was this elf beside him, the Magister-killing escaped slave. 

They certainly made a strange pair, full of a half dozen conflicting stories. Perhaps part of Leliana’s plan was the sheer unbelievability of it all, he mused, and very nearly snorted out loud. The bards did so enjoy watching their puppets dance in circles.

Fenris exhaled sharply enough that Dorian heard it over his own thoughts, and the elf shrugged while he pulled the Altus’ attention. “It seems you've made your choice, but my offer stands,” he said, and clenched his jaw. He had never  _ pushed _ to make Dorian into his image of what made a ruthless master, but Dorian had made a solid effort of taking the last few days more seriously. From Fenris’ waning sharp comments, he must have noticed. “You still think there is a  _ good _ way to do this,” he continued when Dorian made even less of an effort from the first time to respond, and still silently rebutted his offer. When the warrior's eyes turned his way, Dorian almost couldn't hold them. The elf’s shoulders sagged, and he let out a long breath, sounding tired. “You'll find out, sooner or later. I'll try to keep us alive until then.”

Dorian swallowed, and shifted his seat. “You really have so little faith in Tevinter,” he mumbled, a laugh whispering in his tone.

“Yes.” The answer was blunt and easy, and it left Dorian gulping, brows pinching together on his forehead. “But... I am trying to have faith in you.” Fenris added quietly. “... Don't make me regret it.”

Fenris was the first to nudge his horse into motion, but Dorian took the lead as they picked their way across the last of the hills, headlong into the night as they made their way toward the city. Dorian had half a mind to stop, to ask for Fenris’ help,  _ finally _ , before it was too late, but as the city grew closer, larger, only  _ more welcoming... _ It mattered less and less as days-old hunger gnawed at his insides, and the elf rode behind him without another complaint right up to the city’s walls and within. The streets were empty for the horrid hour as they made their way through to an inn, put up their horses, and Dorian was handing coin off to a sallow-faced elf for a higher-end suite, at least having enough sense to dismiss frugality now that eyes were undoubtedly upon them. It would not do for Dorian Pavus to not flaunt everything his name gave him, even if it was no longer entirely his to flaunt about, and he might have less time to do so that he might want. Once his parents found out about what their son was doing back in Tevinter, he had no doubts that he would be disowned entirely. It wouldn't do for the son of house Pavus to disgrace the family further by falling in with a group of supremacists that weren't endorsed by the Magisterium outwardly. 

Never mind the fact that half of the Magisterium probably were members themselves - which only rolled a thought unpleasantly about in his head. His father had once turned to more deplorable measures. Who would be to say that Halward would not shake his hand? Offer congratulations, rename him as an heir, and show him off to every Venatori he knew to show what a fine man he’d raised?

He was lead to the suite, a servant - slave, his tired mind reminded him - carrying his things along the way. She made a short attempt to dismiss Fenris as they passed the stoop down to the slaves quarters, but a brisk rebuttal from the mage and the word  _ bodyguard _ shut her up quickly. Fenris’ aura seemed to shift at the word, but as exhausted as he was, Dorian couldn't think of anything else, the words spilling out of his mouth straight from Varric’s stupid book. Maybe he’d have the time to come up with something better on the last leg of their journey into the heart of the Imperium. 

For now, bodyguard would do. 

When the door shut behind them, Dorian had eyes only for the bed across the room despite Fenris’ nearly uncomfortable quiet. He didn't have the brain capacity to deal with it right then. His hands were numb, fumbling tiredly at the fastenings of his clothes until nimbler hands appeared to assist him, and Dorian made a small, thankful noise, letting Fenris do most of the work while he tried to roll the kinks out of his neck from riding. His own dusty robes were the first to hit the floor, and when he caught Fenris having trouble with his own fittings, Dorian stepped closer, eyes heavy as he undid the straps of the elf’s armor to set everything down by the bed. He almost groaned at the thought of sleep, the thought of  _ a bed _ , and while he helped Fenris with the buckles of his last bracer, he couldn’t keep the tired smile from pulling at his lips.

When Fenris made to move away with a small thanks, Dorian took hold of his naked wrist. The elf froze, holding his breath, and Dorian held on. His mind skittered, raced, failed him, but the only bed in the room lay behind him, and Fenris had been heading for the corner, where nothing comfortable lay but a stiff chaise and pillows with sharp ornamental beads fringing the edges. “Fenris,” he urged quietly. He licked his lips when Fenris looked his way.

“I shouldn't-”

“You're not sleeping on the floor. Or the cheap couch that is probably _ less  _ comfortable.” Dorian said shortly, and softened to the look the elf shot him, caged and wary. He pulled the warrior a little closer. Fenris frowned, slackened in exhaustion, heaved a sigh, and with a nod, he allowed Dorian to pull him onto the bed, the lush mattress swallowing their weight as they climbed in. Dorian exhaled so heavily to the sinking sensation that he almost missed Fenris’ low, appreciative noise, and he didn’t even bother rolling, letting the mattress swallow him while Fenris’ weight settled in beside his own. He found himself smiling in bleary victory up at the ceiling, nearly entirely at the fingers curling absently around his own wrist as his eyes drifted shut beyond his control. 

He didn't think sleep had ever claimed him so quickly in his life.

 

✵✵✵

 

HIs dreams were scattered, the product of a busy mind, and when Dorian next opened his eyes, it didn’t feel like he’d gotten much sleep at all. A glance to the window revealed the low disc of the sun, orange and red against the rooftops of the city, and a low groan from his side pulled the mage’s attention back inward, inhaling and practically feeling his mouth dry out at the sight of the warrior beside him, sitting up to stretch. His eyes were glued to the bare muscle against Fenris’ ribs while he stretched his arms over his head, gaze trailing over the swirls of lyrium against his skin. 

He must have finished taking off his clothes sometime during the night for the heat, but hadn't left the bed.

Green eyes slid his way when he said nothing, and the mage cleared his throat, hoping that color did not spring to his cheeks as he turned his eyes away, and Fenris stood from the bed with a low noise and another stretch, rolling his shoulders. Dorian half wondered if the bed had attributed to the soreness, as his own shoulders ached, but he still flattened back out against the soft form of it, exhaling as he sunk into the plush cushion once again. He yawned, heard Fenris do the same a few paces away, and it pulled his lips into a smile at nothing in particular. It was moments like these that he could almost pretend they were anywhere else, living another, easier life with slow, wordless,  _ comfortable _ mornings instead of -

Instead of the clatter of metal on tile, and a low growl followed by a venomous hiss of Tevene, spat from between Fenris’ lips.

The mage shot up at the startle of sound, pulling at his magic in a panic. Fenris was facing away from him, the clatter being from a brass cup by his feet, water pooling messily around it in a jagged puddle. Fire plucked at the tips of his fingers, eager and hungry from across the veil, and another sweep of the room with his eyes still revealed no one but Fenris, the muscles of his back taut, fingers pulled into tight fists. “-Fenris?” He called quietly, and nearly jumped when the warrior swung around, hair still tousled from sleep. Color pinched at his cheeks when he took in Dorian’s undressed state, the rumpled sheets, and he turned back again, swearing low and harsh before throwing his fists into his hair and breaking into motion.

When he stopped, turned, and paced back the way he’d come, fingers still digging into his scalp, Dorian swallowed before pushing himself toward the edge of the bed, and to his feet. A yawn had him swaying on his feet, and Dorian held back a groan.  _ Not the most delightful way to wake up -  _ “The bath has been filled.” Fenris said into the quiet, hackles raised, and Dorian rubbed at the side of his face, palm scraping through the growth of hair on his jaw. 

“Oh?” He said, fighting another yawn, and what did that have to do with anything?

“And hot,” Fenris clipped, and Dorian shuffled to a stop, losing the battle to the uncontrollable stretch of his jaw.

Really, the idea of a hot bath was  _ wonderful _ , and Dorian still had no idea why Fenris was acting like he was, tense and furious, a bundle of nerves and rage. The mage hummed absently, spying the steam rising from the step-in bath to the side of Fenris’ knee. “Are you calling first go, then? Have at it, Fenris-” He nearly bit his tongue when the warrior spun on his heel again, closer and even more livid than he had been before.

“ _ Are you serious?”  _ Fenris hissed, eyes narrowing. “Take a moment and  _ think _ , mage-”

The stress of his erratic pulse left the mage tired and belligerent, pushing him to lash out. “About a  _ bath _ ?” He scoffed, and Fenris turned on his heel, “I’ve  _ thought _ , and I am  _ thinking _ that it is a marvelous thing. If you’re not going to climb in, I very well might, so are you getting in, or not?” Dorian hung on his question, and Fenris growled suddenly, moving to stalk away while the mage stared after him. “What is  _ with  _ you?”

Again, the elf wheeled around towards him. “Do you not -  _ venhedis _ . You are truly this naive.” Fenris stared at him, the words puffing out in disbelief, and Dorian stared right back. The warrior blinked, faltered, and shook his head, mouth setting in a firm line. The Altus kept on staring expectantly, and Fenris twisted his mouth, hissing out a breath.

When Dorian received no further answer, he rolled his eyes, and made to untie his pants. “Well I am taking a bath, then. It’s large enough for two, if you’re of a mind to join me.”

Fenris turned his head from pulling his clothes from the floor, and stared at him. Dorian lifted his brows, and the elf furrowed his own, looking over Dorian’s shoulder and toward the bath. “...  _ Venhedis. _ ” He hissed again, and turned away. With another slow, longsuffering breath, Dorian finished undressing and made for the warm, wisping arms of the steam rising from the water.

 

✵✵✵

 

“ _ Real food, _ ” Dorian inhaled as they descended the steps to the sitting hall, a smile springing to his lips. 

They were late to dinner, most of the patrons already seated throughout the common area of the inn, mingling and laughing, dressed in finery as they ate their fill from platters held by waifish elves in flimsy yellow silk - obviously dressed to amplify the innkeeper’s penchant for excess. It had been a long time since he’d had a proper meal - to him, right now, the fragrant platters smelled like a  _ feast _ . 

“We should not remain here,” Fenris said from behind him in little more than a whisper as they reached the lowest steps. Dorian ignored him in favor of staring at the platters of food, his stomach clenching in hunger. His mouth watered, and he snatched a dried fig from a smaller elf’s platter as they passed, popping it innocently into his mouth. When he turned his head, catching the warrior’s eye and quirking his lips upward, Fenris’ mouth pulled into the faintest of frowns.

In the room, the elf had never gotten over the bath, and Dorian still did not understand it. It was not as though a bath being drawn was uncommon in a proper inn, especially with the price he paid for that room, but Fenris had refused to use it, and had been short with the mage for doing so. ‘ _ Acting like a child’ _ may have come out of Dorian’s mouth before Fenris stiffened and snapped his mouth shut, and from then, he hadn’t said much of anything. Dorian huffed softly, grabbing at another chunk of fruit from another platter, and Fenris made a small discontented noise that went ignored.

Dorian filled a plate with a variety of everything fresh he could get his hands on; fruits, vegetables, breads, cheese, and it wasn't until he was sampling another platter of figs that he realized the slave holding it was not looking at him, but also did not have her eyes lowered. The elf a step behind him seemed to pull her attention, and with a short glance down the line, Dorian noted that she was not the only one.

He paused, mindless of the fruit sticking to his fingers. Did they know of Fenris? Varric’s book was by no means popular literature here, especially among those who probably could not read, but slaves whispered amongst themselves, and he did not doubt they knew more about Fenris than even Dorian might. Did they know he’d killed Danarius? What did they think of  _ Dorian _ , the one who was dragging him back? His mind was quick to fill in the gaps with things more nonsensical by the moment, and so he left the line of food, sparing Fenris a glance that was not returned. By the set of the warrior’s jaw, though, he'd noticed the lingering eyes as well.

He only had a moment to try and figure what that meant.

“Dorian!” The bellow startled him from trying to catch Fenris’ attention by every of the most subtle means he knew how, and Dorian swung around. The innkeeper - Dorian assumed he was the innkeeper from the clothing he wore that very nearly matched the drapery and the elves all also coordinated in the same color - made his way down the summerstone steps into the foyer, wide in every aspect, including the toothy smile that Dorian barely,  _ just barely _ recognized. He stared in silence while he was approached and clapped heavily on the shoulder, the wide man laughing as though he was reuniting with an old friend. Dorian squinted, and a spark of memory ignited. That false laughter, constant and desperate, fingers grabbing at food and flesh alike at a celebration of his Grandfather’s death - not a funeral for mourning, seeing as it meant Halward would be taking his magisterial seat, and Dorian’s father had never been an overly sentimental man. At least not before he’d made larger mistakes of his own. “Rumour had it that you had gone South,” The man boomed, chins jostling along with Dorian’s memory, and Dorian smiled to the obvious lure behind the statement.  _ ‘For good _ ’ went unsaid, and ignored. “Tell me, my boy, tell me - how is it, down there?”

‘ _ What secrets have you brought back to us?’  _ Dorian’s mind whispered, and his smirk only widened. There had certainly been a reason that the man, despite his paltry mage talent, had only been invited to a single Pavus function - he must be a distant relation.  _ Very _ . Distant. Digging for information so obviously would have gotten him, or someone far more important, killed a long, long time ago.

It was too easy to fall back into laying every sentence over with a second meaning, when he’d spent so long finally speaking frankly among those he considered friends. “Cold, drab, and woefully uneventful.” He replied, his lips still curved slightly upward, and the man boomed out an overtly jovial guffaw, clapping Dorian on the shoulder with enough force to send a pair of strawberries rolling helplessly from his plate to the floor. Dorian did not bother trying to catch the first, but did save the second one before it could throw itself off the side, popping it between his teeth in the hopes that the distant uncle would get the message and leave him be.

Thick fingers closed over his shoulder with another laugh, and he knew that wasn’t happening. The man wanted something. Money? Prestige? A good word put in on his behalf, perhaps, to the larger Pavus Houses. Maybe he  _ had _ offended someone. “And what brings you to my humble inn, my boy?” His smile lingered for too long, and Dorian blinked at him, half laughing at the so-called  _ humility _ of a man wearing more gold than his mother on a good day. 

“What, I can’t drop in on my favorite uncle?” He returned, and the man’s laugh grew ever louder at the idea. Balkar? He thought it might be Balkar. And really, with Dorian’s penchant for pissing off his family, this man might really as well be his favorite. Even if his eyes lingered on the elf behind him in a way that Dorian decidedly did not like.

But the look was quick enough before Dorian was back to being the center of the man’s attention, and he leaned in like a man with a conspiracy, his arm sliding around Dorian’s shoulders to pull him in with that smile. “I hear you arrived at quite the hour. I hope the slave didn't wake you.” His sudden wink was gratuitous, and even if Dorian had to guess at why he was winking, the act was too obvious to be construed as anything but - 

He stopped, a grape halfway to his mouth, and felt the blood drain from his face. 

His stomach twisted suddenly, and his face must have shown it, for the way his uncle leaned away with another clap to his shoulder. “Not to worry, my boy,” he whispered loudly enough that the Altus could swear half the room heard, “your secret is safe with your uncle Baltar.”

Of  _ course _ the man knew. Slaves.  _ Slaves _ drew a bath while they were sleeping, and Fenris had been beside him in bed, barely clothed and too close for anything other than a favoured slave, to be allowed to sleep beside their master after...

After...

Another violent twist of his stomach, and Dorian set the grape back onto his plate, the fresh smell of the food making him suddenly nauseous. His uncle blinked, and frowned. “Are you doing alright, my boy? Has the fruit gone sour?” With a furrow of his brow, he went to wave a slave over, and Dorian shook his head, wrenching a smile into his features.

“Goodness, nothing of the sort. The food is fine.” He smiled, but all the same, Dorian’s appetite had plummeted with the epiphany. He hadn’t even  _ thought of -  _ no wonder Fenris was livid _.  _ Maybe he was just as naive as Fenris had thought. He'd simply never thought to put slaves into the equation of being found in bed with men. He’d never had a slave _ in  _ his bed, granted, but he had overlooked for his entire life that slaves came and went from his chambers, even while he slept. That they were not  _ blind _ -

No wonder everyone knew long before he'd stopped trying to hide it.

He turned his eyes, trying to find Fenris in the huddle of patrons, and he wasn't even sure why he was surprised to find the warrior just behind him, eyes averted downwards, playing his part spectacularly. Demure despite the gargantuan sword strapped to his back, hands loose by his sides as though awaiting a command. The sight of it was enough to turn Dorians stomach one last time, and the Altus set his plate down on the closest surface. “-but, now that you mention it, I don't think I've quite rested up well enough from my journey. I think I might... Retire to my room for one more night, if you're gracious enough to accept a tab from house Pavus?”

The innkeeper blinked, and let out a boom of laughter. “Anything for family, dear boy! Please, please, stay as long as you like. I’ll bill your father.” He winked again before releasing Dorian’s shoulder, eyeing his plate before pulling off the grape that Dorian had abandoned. Dorian did not doubt that having his family in this man's debt catered to him just fine.

He stood and gathered himself with another stiff smile and a nod, his heart still lodged in his throat, hands in loose fists to keep them from shaking. The gesture was returned with a too-enthusiastic wave of his uncle’s bejeweled fingers, and Dorian retreated for the stairs with his stomach in a knot, all too aware of his elven shadow the whole way up.

“ _ I did not mean for that to happen, _ ” he whispered as soon as he heard Fenris shut the door behind them. He hadn't even taken a cursory look for other slaves around the room before opening his mouth, but he couldn't hold it in a second longer. He turned, and it was to find Fenris with a clenched jaw, the handle of the door held in an iron grip as though it had been a monumental amount of effort in order to shut it quietly. The mage swallowed. “Fenris-”

“ _ Shut up.” _ The elf hissed, and Dorians jaw clacked shut. Fenris looked at him sharply, and then tore his eyes away and dropped the door handle with a hiss of breath. His breath was quiet, but his voice shook with something decidedly more angry than dismissive. “I should not have been in your bed in the first place.  _ You _ should not have suggested it!”

Dorian’s mind was racing. “I was exhausted.  _ You _ were exhausted.  _ Kaffas _ , Fenris. I'm sorry, is that what you want to hear? Because void take you, a little comfort in your life would not go remiss, and I would offer it still. I’m already a fuck up when it comes to my family,  _ fuck _ what these people think-”

“ _ -Everything is riding on what these people think. _ ” The elf tore into Dorian's tirade, stepping closer so he could keep his voice down, fingers tense as though he wanted to grab Dorian and shake him. “You think I am angry because someone thinks you sleep with slaves? That is nothing new, we practically  _ expect it _ . I am  _ angry _ because  _ I was stupid enough _ to have dismissed what it meant for  _ me  _ to be back in my master’s bed-” His voice stalled out mid sentence, but the words struck at Dorian like a blow, and Fenris’ eyes went startled and wide as he snapped his mouth shut. The mage stared, and Fenris did not look at him, eyes huge and on the table across the room as his hand came up to clap over his lips, resting a moment before dragging his palm up and over his face while he took a step backward.

“Wh - I’m not -  _ You’re not - _ ” Dorian was having trouble inhaling.  _ Back _ in his..  _ He hadn’t even thought of _ ... “ _ Fenris _ -” He was interrupted by Fenris spinning on his heel, presenting the mage instead with his back, and Fenris stalked towards their travelling packs, hauling his own up into the bed to rifle through it. His jaw was a bear trap, and Dorian approached him inch by careful inch, hands hovering uselessly in front of his stomach. 

The outburst had color blooming again across the warrior’s neck and shoulders, and Fenris’ hands shook as he unpacked, gauging what need to be stocked; what needed to be stolen, so that they could continue on their way. “ _ Forget it. _ ” He hissed, “That has -  _ nothing _ to do with you.”

But from the tense rise and fall of the elf’s shoulders - by the pause in his searching to pull his hands into shaking fists, loosening them once the shaking had stilled - Dorian knew that his own carelessness had Fenris reliving it.

And Dorian hadn’t  _ known _ .

Dorian swallowed, inhaled, and lifted his hands, stalling in mid air. Fenris’ fingers froze again, tense and wary. “Fenris-”

“I said  _ shut up _ -”

A lot of things happened at once. Despite his better judgement, Dorian put a hand to the elf’s shoulder, and it was nearly taken off for how quickly the lyrium ghost lit up and flung a gauntleted arm  _ through _ his reaching limb. 

It did not feel how Dorian expected it might, all heat whereas the cold blue glow of the lyrium implied a chill. Dorian found out in that fraction of a second that Fenris was not ice but  _ fire _ , burning hotter than any flame he could conjure from the fade. He reeled with a startled shout, and Fenris froze, seeming to realize what had just happened. His lips fell open, words dying in multiples upon them before he was trying to retreat, and the mage shot forward again to catch him. While Dorian’s fingers closed around the elf’s glowing arm, Fenris levelled him with a startled stare, and Dorian met it with a determined air, lips shaking as he raced to form words. Nothing came, and he  _ stared _ , his breath escaping in a heavy rush only to fling itself back into his lungs. His fingers were itching, and he couldn’t tell if it was from Fenris cutting through his arm with an incorporeal hand, or if it was the lyrium  _ now _ , singing at the power under his own skin.

Still, the elf was frozen, as though waiting for him to retaliate to the attack. There was a frantic, caged look as he stood, and Dorian held on. Maybe he  _ wanted _ retaliation.

But it hadn’t been an attack, Dorian reasoned. Panic. Irrationality. Fear. Fenris had not  _ hurt _ him. It didn’t matter that he very well  _ could have _ ; not in this second, while Fenris looked terrified and wild. Trapped, by memory and reputation and everything he’d spent a decade tearing himself free from. Was that why the eyes of the slaves lingered on him? Fenris had to be a legend in his own right. A myth that slaves told themselves about when under the hand of harsher masters; and here, the Inquisition had leashed him again, and put Dorian on the end of his chain. He had forgotten it in a moment of exhaustion, of misplaced comfort. Had he already messed this up so badly?

“You are not that slave any longer,” he found himself whispering, as though a tone any louder would only set Fenris off. He watched the elf inhale, and swallowed. He had no place to say it, but he couldn’t say  _ nothing.  _ “You are no slave at all. Whatever happened before -” and he fumbled when Fenris hissed, trying to pull away but only mostly being successful in dragging Dorian in, closer, when the mage refused to let go. His heart beat mercilessly in his throat, and anger began to flare up in those wild eyes, so Dorian tried desperately to put it out. “-You had no choice. Not then.  _ Now _ is different. You are  _ free _ , and any choice is yours to make. If I’d have known...” 

His voice failed him, and as it trailed off, Dorian was caught in the elf’s almost expectant stare. If he’d have known... then what? He would have had Fenris sleep on the floor, like a dog? Perhaps left him to the slave’s quarters, throwing him back into that the life he’d fought to free himself from.

But Fenris was still staring at him, and for the life of him, Dorian couldn’t think of what else to say.

When nothing came, the elf exhaled and tried to shake the mage off a second time. Dorian hesitated, but let go in the end, though the warrior took barely a step backward before coming to a stop. Fenris very nearly looked back over his shoulder to the bed, and paused, jaws twitching, fingers flexing at his sides. Dorian’s feet had become stone. “Would it have changed anything, if you’d known before?” Fenris asked, brows knotted together on his forehead, and Dorian exhaled in the small space between them, hesitating. 

After such a blow as the knowledge Fenris had just imparted on him... the words did not come easily. “Well, I... I’d hope that I would have had enough social grace not to say some of the things I said,” he offered, and watched Fenris’ brow twist as his own stomach twisted to the memory of his callous tongue. Like asking if Fenris had attacked first, as though he might not have every right to. Like... Like what Danarius had offered to pay to take him back, as though that was all his life had been worth. _Maker_ , he’d been an absolute monster, to take out his frustration at the time on a stranger. He couldn’t contain his wince at the thought, and clenched his jaw when Fenris’ fingers tightened briefly into fists. He didn’t deserve the second chance Fenris had given him. He didn’t deserve _everything_ else the elf had given him, either. Fenris kept close, lips open as though there was more he'd wanted to say once he could find the way to voice it, and Dorian could hear his own pulse in his ears. “...And now you know,” Fenris looked Dorian over in a glance before furrowing his brow and turning away, back toward his pack scattered across the bedspread - made, in their short venture to the main floor, and it only seemed to remind Fenris of the morning, if his shaking fingers were anything to go by. “So where does that put us?”

Dorian blinked, startled to attention from watching Fenris’ hands. “U-us?” He stuttered, and cleared his throat when Fenris stopped, very nearly looking at him from over his shoulder, before shaking his head and dropping it again as he replaced items in his pack methodically. “It - doesn’t put us anywhere. I meant it, Fenris. Comfort is... not an easy commodity, especially here. If you need it, I’m still going to offer it.”

Fenris fell still. 

“Again?” He snorted suddenly, sharply, and threw the pouch he’d been finding a space for down with more force than necessary.  Dorian bit at the inside of his cheek. “ You would ask a slave into your bed? Well, then you knowing has really changed nothing at all-”

“-No.” Dorian said sharply, and thought he tasted blood after releasing his cheek from between his teeth. He stepped forward, seizing the elf by the arm and forcing him to turn again, very nearly reaching up to catch Fenris’ chin before the warrior’s sharp eyes turned on him. “ _ Vishante kaffas,  _ I am not  _ asking _ a slave into my bed.  _ You are not a slave _ .”

“Except I  _ am not free. _ ” Fenris hissed back, and the crack of his voice had Dorian rooted to the spot, his fingers around the warrior’s arm like a vice. Fenris’ voice had dropped again to barely above a whisper, and the low note of defeat only had Dorian tightening his grip, his breath in his throat. “... There is no freedom from what has been done to me.” 

“You are,” he insisted, even if it sounded like something false as soon as the words left his mouth. “You are not bound to that life. You freed yourself. You are free.”

Fenris’ lips twitched into a frown, brows creased over his forehead. He opened his lips, words fizzling out in a hesitant hiss, and Fenris had to pull his eyes away before he could try again. “If I am, explain to me why I feel trapped,” he shifted in Dorian's hold, and the mage swallowed at the twist of the elf’s features, “why I am here, in a country I despise, with a man I would have killed without a second thought had we met under different circumstances. Why I must stay at your side when eyes are upon me just as much as they are on you.”

“Because you came to find me instead of fleeing Skyhold,” Dorian answered in as soft a tone as he could manage, and it pulled Fenris’ attention sharply toward him, “and I don't know if that's commendable or stupid, but I find myself thankful all the same.” With an exhale, Dorian loosened his grip, but did not let go, his fingers sliding down Fenris’ arm in inches. Fenris’ hand came up to catch his slipping wrist, and Dorian glanced up, but Fenris stayed silent for a span of breaths, in the end, and Dorian used it to clear his own head. “And that is a choice you make for yourself,” Dorian insisted in a whisper, and Fenris gave pause, brows furrowing. His lips fell apart, whatever thought that was trying to form dying out before it could voice itself. Dorian licked his lips. “I’m thanking you, of course, before I forget to, because I certainly don’t want to do this alone... but I’m also promising the same. You’re not alone. I’ll keep you safe in every way I know how. Even if I ask it, know that I am ever only asking. I would never force anything of you. Your choices are your own, Fenris. No matter the circumstance, you are free to say  _ no _ .” 

Fenris’ thumb lingered against Dorian’s wrist, tracing his pulse before letting out a long, careful breath.  He  was too close, his anger still there and broiling at the surface, ready to burn if Dorian tried to prod at it. Dorian could almost imagine the heat of it, but perhaps that was just Fenris’ breath against his skin, so he continued staring, until Fenris’ dark brows furrowed and with a long exhale, he leaned closer. “Then it is my choice,” he started carefully, frowning. If Dorian knew of a way to chase the lingering doubt in those words, he would have, but the best the mage could do was remain still, hand caught under Fenris’ own, the lyrium just barely grazing his own skin and leaving his fingers tingling. “My choice to protect you. Follow you. To be your shadow. Your  _ slave. _ ”

“Fenris,” He offered, watching a muscle in Fenris’ jaw twitch as he swallowed stiffly, and Dorian cupped his palm around the warrior’s elbow, “I'm not... Trying to downplay what’s been asked of you. I only mean to promise you that you have not given up your freedom. That this will  _ end _ , and you are not bound to any of it. Not even now. I’ll take you back to the border. I’ll make  _ certain _ that no one follows -”

“And where would I go then?” Fenris interrupted, voice low. “I leave you here, on your own,  _ knowing _ that my leaving would leave you vulnerable, and... what then?” 

“You’re not responsible for me.” Dorian said quickly, and watched Fenris’ nostrils flare in an agitated exhale. “I - I don’t want to be a burden. I’m  _ not _ a burden. I am your ally, Fenris. Your  _ friend _ .”

Friends would be a commodity that Dorian had rarely seen in Tevinter in the best of times. He was sure Fenris could at least relate to that much.

“We are not friends.” Fenris said sharply instead, and Dorian nearly choked on his breath, moving to release the elf’s arm. Instead, armored fingers clamped around his own, and the mage found himself trapped in the space close to him, glaring while Fenris’ own frown softened.  “We are... Decidedly more complicated than that.” He remedied, and while Dorian still found it hard to inhale, the sour note of it had fled. His breath shook, and Fenris’ thumb ghosted absently over his knuckles, the tips of his finger curling around the edge of Dorian’s own. “ _ Fasta vass _ . I know  _ you  _ are not the root of this, I just...” He exhaled, and shut his eyes when Dorian traced his thumb carefully over the skin alongside a line of lyrium. “I cannot remove you from fault. Not completely.”

Dorian swallowed the lump in his throat, struggling with a small smile while trying to hold his breath. “That doesn't leave me very reassured.” He said with a whisper of laughter that sounded forced, even to him. “But the fact that you are still here after saying so does make me feel better.” But Fenris stayed silent for a span of breaths, in the end, and Dorian used it to clear his own head. Yes, he'd been an absolute ass. No, Fenris would never be required to forgive him for it. 

And yet here they were, standing conspiratorially close, with the elf assuring Dorian’s hold on his arm, fingers twisted to curl against the mage’s palm. 

“I told you,” Fenris’ voice was quiet, but Dorian could not call it soft, and the warrior’s eyes opened to look up, sharp and piercing into his own, “this is not me trying to escape this. I meant it when I said that I would remain. That I would not abandon you after all this.”

Dorian couldn’t look away. He stared, and eventually Fenris was the one to drop his gaze, huffing out a breath and tugging at the arm in his grip, leaving Dorian to stumble in a step closer. The lips against his own were firm and brief, certainly not fueled by the same sort of fire that Dorian had grown to know, and the lack of the heat only had the mage wanting more, to work for the spark that might ignite it. Dorian found himself following the kiss while Fenris broke it, drawn closer by a breath, and when Fenris’ free palm flattened against his chest, he stopped. His fingers itched to pull the elf closer, but Dorian fell back with a breath. “ _ After _ .” He whispered before Fenris could beat him to it, but it was Fenris’ sharp look and the hand pressing more insistently against his sternum that caught his attention. He opened his mouth, and the elf shushed him with a low gust of air.

And in the span of a breath, Fenris transformed. Dorian watched as Fenris lowered his eyes, shoulders dropping, and he tipped his face toward the door just before there was a short, soft knock against the wood. The dismissive stance and movement jerked at Dorian's nerves in a way they never had before - maybe in a way he'd never noticed, but while Fenris turned, Dorians stomach rolled. The warrior moved to cross the room toward the door but Dorian was faster, stalling the elf with a brief hand against his shoulder.

He hadn't expected that watching Fenris the play slave would make his stomach twist as completely as it was.

The mousy elf behind the span of wood looked surprised to see him when the door creaked open. Brown eyes went wide, and the slave stumbled back a step, bending in a clumsy bow to avert his eyes before Dorian could catch them. “A - apologies for disturbing you, messere. A letter arrived for you, and the master sent me to fetch your...” he trailed off, his eyes falling on Fenris.

Dorian glanced over his shoulder to find Fenris, eyes down, and cleared his throat when the elf at the door couldn't seem to look away. “A letter from whom?”

The slave startled, tearing his gaze away from Fenris and back to the floor, coughing and presenting the mage with a sealed fold of parchment. Dorian saw the crest in the seal just before the slave spoke again. “Ah - the master says it is from your Lord father. He did not - did not read it, messere. He insists.”

“I'm sure he does.” Dorian said quietly, and took the letter, rolling it between his fingers while he tried to fight the clenching of his jaw. “Would you gather a raven for me? A reply shouldn't take very long...” he trailed off when all the slave did was shuffle on his feet uncomfortably. “...or am I missing something.”

He didn't think his tone was overly cold, but the elf jerked downward into a bow all the same. “The message - a driver arrived shortly after the raven, messere - he says... he says...” terrified eyes glanced off toward Fenris behind Dorian's shoulder, who had moved a little closer. The Altus let out a breath. Of course. Dorian was expected. Good or evil, he was an Altus and had sway over them either way. Fenris... was something of a wild card. While the slave tried to find his words, Dorian ripped the letter open and skimmed over Halward's elegant hand. A congratulations on his work done with the inquisition, well wishes for his travels, a sober note of condolences for Alexius, and a request for Dorian to return with the carriage that he'd sent ahead of the raven.

His father seriously thought he'd crawl back home?

Not to mention that there was a short list of  _ who _ would have sent his father a letter so quickly. He couldn't mask the short note of disgust as he folded the paper again, pulling the slaves attention back towards him, and Dorian inhaled, bracing himself. “The driver is downstairs, then?”

“Y-yes, messere.”

Dorian nodded, and the elf swivelled out of the way as he made his way through. He was halfway down the stairs when the shuffle of armor behind him had him stalling, and he swung his head around in time to catch Fenris falling still, brows twitching up just slightly. Dorian’s lips fell apart, and almost imperceptibly, the elf tipped his chin down to the mage.

_ I will not abandon you now. _

Dorian’s lungs swelled for a moment, and he had to match the twitch of his lips with a flick of his moustache, flattening his fingers over the growth of hair on his face. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're officially in Tevinter. *quiet shrieking*
> 
> I hope the beast of a chapter makes up for the wait! Thank you all for reading!


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